Under My Skin
by Xenutia
Summary: Years before the launch of the NX-01, one of its crew was visited by a mysterious being in black . . . a being who's back to call in certain favours . . .
1. ACID SKIES

**Disclaimer: **The standard disclaimer applies. I wrote this last year when I first found myself irredeemably fascinated by Malcolm Reed, Hoshi Sato, and the idea of childhood encounters signalling the start of something big . . . but I don't own anything except for the Dark Man. He's all mine!**  
Rating: **PG**  
Codes: **R, S, Tu  
**Author's Notes: **This is a repost of something from last year. Some people may recognise it, and anyone that's reading Parallax' may be interested in this as part one of the three-part saga. You know that sounds far more important than it really is! Never mind. Enjoy.  
**  
**ACID SKIES  
  
Malcolm Reed watched the storm apathetically through the steamed, rain-streaked window, listening absently to the gale that was blowing in the stone-paved courtyard outside. It slammed against the sleek buildings and drove hapless jetsam, leaves and shards of broken fencing, along before it. Was there a race out there, he wondered, that could control the weather? Could _they_ one day develop the technology to control the weather, as they had developed artificial gravity, faster-than-light-engines, protein resequencers? It was only more atomic structure, after all. Heat was only the motion of the atoms, cold their stillness. As a boy he would never have imagined any of these things to be possible, the stars merely unreachable pinpricks in the night sky, and yet here they were, their vessel carrying eight-three men, women, and aliens to destinations such as this, the institute he and the away team had landed at nearly a day and a half earlier—a Vulcan science institute in the Hermesian System. Or was it _Her_-_met_-_ian_? He would never have Hoshi's ability to reproduce these unfamiliar names, wrapping the words effortlessly around his tongue as she seemed to. Could they one day develop a translator so infallible, so instantaneous, that they wouldn't have to? He didn't know . . . but just because they had never done these things before, it didn't mean they _couldn't_. After all, they had never before tried.  
  
When the call came two days ago, Reed had sat at his station on the bridge with only one ear open and neither eye sparing a glance for the viewscreen. Captain Archer had begun the discourse, and Subcommander T'Pol had resumed it when the Vulcan physicist on screen interrupted the captain's cold welcome. The matter, as much of it as Reed had noted at the beginning, had been more to her way of thinking than the captain's, and the rest of the bridge had been a little complacent about the hail—it was unlikely to greatly affect any of them but the captain and T'Pol—until Reed heard his name mentioned, and jerked his head up from tactical with a snap.  
  
Taking my name in vain, sir? he had inquired, wishing he had paid better attention before now, and embarrassed to see that T'Pol, at least, had entertained the same thought. Her eyebrow had tweaked almost imperceptibly into a thin arch.  
  
Just arranging a little planet-side parley I think we might need you for, Archer had replied, with that quiet, graciously tolerant twinkle in his eye. The captain was truly inspiring sometimes, the way he accepted and allowed that his crew would not always remember their professional etiquette. The Vulcan institute on Devoli V —  
  
T'Pol interceded pointedly.  
  
— VISAC, have a proposition they would like to put to us. They seem to consider it a matter of security. Which means I might have to disturb your daydreaming for a day or two. There was the smirk Reed had known was coming, twitching at Archer's top lip with slow relish.   
  
Aye, sir.  
  
That had been yesterday evening, ship's time, and he, the captain, and T'Pol had taken the pod to the institute, arriving a full day ahead of the institute's head of communications. They had been invited to look around the complex, an offer T'Pol had accepted for the sake of genuine interest, and the captain for purely polite ones. Reed had respectfully declined. As he had already reminded himself tonight, science and linguistics were hardly his strong suit. Instead, he had made a study of the institute's defenses as he had been assigned, ensuring the meeting's exclusivity was maintained.  
  
Reed turned away, casting a tired eye over the austere Vulcan accommodation he had been assigned for the stay. It was serviceable, and as far as he had yet investigated, lacked nothing in the way of necessities. There were two exits, a must in any unfamiliar surroundings, a way of retreat in case of a hostile advance, and that was really all he could comment on. He couldn't offer an opinion of the slim, spartan bunk, as he hadn't slept a wink on it since they landed, and he couldn't compliment their chef on the food, because he hadn't yet stopped to eat.   
_   
All work and no play, Lieutenant, _he began, but left it unsaid and unthought, shying back from it, his mouth and his brain seeming to make a silent agreement to push it back where it belonged. There were worse things in this world than taking your job seriously.  
  
Like not being prepared, for instance.  
  
-------------------------------------  
  
It had happened when he was only six years old. He hadn't remembered it, not till the day when he braved the storm at the Vulcan Institute of Science And Communications, but it had happened . . . the more he thought about it later, the more he was certain of that. It had happened. Perhaps he would never have remembered, and the memory would have remained suppressed along with so many others . . . but even the slightest disturbance can sometimes wake a slumbering spark. There had been a storm that day, _the _storm. He assumed it was the storm at VISAC, years later, that had disturbed the memory and tossed it up like a pebble in a swift-moving stream.  
  
Only six, when it happened. Still very young, too young to understand that it was worth remembering, but old enough to be afraid. He had hidden in the closet to get away from the storm.  
  
Most six year olds had a comforter, he supposed. A blanket, mostly, or a toy so dog-eared and manhandled that it was hard to tell what, exactly, it had started life as—but Malcolm had the closet. He would climb in there and hide, when the silence at dinner became too heavy for him to breathe through, when his report card slipped even once below the expected, but never openly demanded, A'—when the rain beat against the house this way and the wind shrieked like an animal in pain. He would have been amazed if someone had told him most parents went to their children when it thundered and lightning tore the sky; amazed . . . and disbelieving. His disbelief, he supposed, was what made him close himself off the way he did.   
  
The dark was comforting, in here. It was the safety of ignorance, of hearing the roar of the thunder and the scream of the lightning, two ancient gods spoiling for a rumble in the sky, but being unable to see it. Unable to see the way the clouds hung low over the earth, the black curtain kissing the horizon away to the west, the way it almost looked as if the sky would come crashing down. In here, with the door pulled closed, he had no way to measure the nearness of the white-hot bolts as they lanced down, incinerating the roofs and trees they struck. In here, it was just black, and the sounds seemed to be coming from very, very far away.   
  
Malcolm had dragged his bedclothes into the small space with him and sat cocooned in the top quilt, heat simmering in his muscles, his skin drenched with icy rivers of sweat. His bundle of sheets clung to his feverish body like damp paper.   
  
He sat trembling in his own sweaty imprint, waiting for the quiet to come. If anybody had asked him if he was scared, his answer would have been a soft, uncompromising no' . . . but, to his own mind, yes, he was scared.   
  
Moments before he had thought he heard something stir in the next room, his parents' room, the thin wall barely containing the sound—his mother, he knew now, making a hesitant move to come in to him. But the move had halted, and then been withdrawn hastily at the faint murmur of his father's voice. Malcolm could imagine, all too well, what that murmur had entailed.  
  
There had been an answering murmur, muted, too dim for him to make out the words, but he could tell by the creak of their bed as his mother climbed back in that it was subservient, subdued, and accepting. She wouldn't come into his room again until the morning.  
  
Malcolm bedded down for the night in the bottom of the half-empty closet, and did what every Reed had been encouraged to do for centuries—he made the best of it.  
  
-------------------------------------  
  
As Reed closed the outer door to the plaza behind him and stood bracing himself on the step, a heavy gust of shrieking wind and rain slapped all the breath from him. Across the square, the young tree saplings leaned away from the gale, bending like rubber, their topmost leaves scraping the flagstones with reaching, brittle fingers. The gutters surged with foaming water, the drainage system gurgling desperately at the onslaught as the storm beat the square into a crazy world full of funhouse mirrors and drunken slants. For a logical race, the Vulcans had certainly chosen an unsuitable planet for a science outpost. Perhaps a part of their program was a study of the weather.  
  
He shrugged deeper into his sopping Starfleet-issue jacket, and stepped out of the shelter of the building into the plaza. The wind nearly drove him off his feet. Reed hunched his shoulders, tucked his head into the wind, and began to walk to the institute's central building.  
_   
An underpass wouldn't exactly go amiss around here, _he thought, dryly.  
  
Lightning lit the blackness with intermittent flares of blue-white, stark and harsh in the dark. He saw not a single living thing in his short journey. Not a bird, human, or Vulcan. Though, he smirked, there was probably a fish or two in water that deep.   
  
The shock of suddenly walking into a pocket of calm almost stunned Reed into a gasp of surprise. One second, rain pounded into his shoulders and head, his hair plastered to his brow like shrink-wrap, his clothes listless swaddles of blackened fabric clinging to the hollows and curves of his body; the next, the rain had stopped. The wind had stopped. The air around him was warm. It was as if someone had drawn a line in the street over which the weather could not pass.   
  
Reed frowned and glanced about in confusion, seeing the clear, calm air about him, tasting the freshness of a storm passed, hearing the rain from far away. He took a step backwards, hardly believing he was actually testing this supposition like some wet-eared Starfleet cadet. The rain struck him again the second he did it. He stepped forward again, and the rain stopped. Across the plaza, the drill of hard white raindrops continued to pound into the symmetrical flagstones, onto the roofs of the single-story laboratory blocks . . . but where he was, the night was perfectly fine.   
  
It was impossible.  
  
Reed cast his eyes around the square, sweeping the far side and the little huddles of lightless silk where the sputtering exterior lamps did not reach, looking for any sign that he was being followed. Being watched. That someone with the ability to command the elements had cast a disquieting pocket of static around him. But why? Why would anyone do that?  
  
Why, to get his attention, of course.  
  
You've got it, he said into the white roar beyond his haven. As he stalked forward a few paces, looking for a shadow out of place, a movement in the dark, his pocket of stillness moved with him. It tracked him like a spotlight on stage—or maybe a police searchlight. Instinctively his fingers twitched towards the holster of his phase pistol. If you wanted my attention, trust me, you have it.  
  
The lonely echo of the rain was his only answer.  
  
-------------------------------------  
  
A sliver of faded moonlight cut through the closet's blackness like a neon blade. Through the chink in the door, the bare inch opened between frame and catch, an eye peered, restlessly.   
  
Huddled in his damp, cool blankets, Malcolm shivered. Or was it really closer to a shudder? With that eye, that watchful, amber eye, like a lion's, he wasn't sure. At the first motion he had assumed, had hoped, that it would be his mother, that somehow she had achieved the impossible and won the argument—but that eye, so bright, so dark, so full of swarming shadows, had been nothing like his mother's. When the realization hit him, a yell formed and was strangled in his throat—consciously strangled. He wanted to call for his parents, to bellow intruder' at the top of his lungs; but the resonant echo of that creaking bed choked the sound, abruptly. For all he knew, they had given this person permission to be in here.   
  
What are you doing in there?  
  
Malcolm blinked, too intrigued to be afraid. The storm, he replied, snappily. I don't like it. It's keeping me awake.  
  
The eye bobbed, as if the head it belonged to had nodded in acknowledgment.   
  
Oh, come now, the voice whispered. Cool, tempting, tripping on Malcolm's heartstrings—or maybe just a vague sense of future memory—striking a chord that was both mildly exotic and eerily familiar. Teasing a broken key somewhere in the back of his mind. You're bigger than any storm. You must know that.  
  
Malcolm replied, defensively. But it's still annoying.  
  
The man—if the eye did indeed belong to a man, and wasn't just a phantom rattle in a sweat-soaked dream—did not appear to be bothered by a six-year-old talking to an adult that way, so petulant and sulky. Malcolm was somehow given the impression that it was almost . . . expected, somehow. He listened to the man's breathing, a rocking, lilting rhythm that clicked silently into place with his own muffled pulse in perfect synchronization. It was hypnotic, pleasant.  
  
It was no dream.  
  
Come out, the voice tempted. Look outside. See how small all of it really is.  
  
Malcolm obeyed with an unquestioning eagerness he had never experienced in his life before. Every question he should have been considering and would consider the next day disappeared, evaporating like the rain on the window. He stood by the sill, his face reflected back at him in the misted glass like a pale ghost, a cheap imitation marbled with threads of trailing rain. Outside, the world stormed. The sky cooked in its own acid electricity. Lightning lit the landscape in one blinding shutter-flash; and then, darkness settled once more.   
  
Are you still afraid? The voice delivered the words directly into his ear, breath breezing past his neck in a warm, sweet gush. It smelled faintly . . . chemical. Sort of fizzy.  
  
Malcolm had discovered, looking outside, that he really _wasn't_ afraid of the storm any more . . . but this man, this man who seemed to know just what to say and when to say it, to know what he was thinking, had already known that.  
  
he stammered.  
  
  
  
The man did not offer a name. He bent over Malcolm, slowly, carefully, that pocket of cold darkness sliding over him like a cool new sheet, and Malcolm reflexively thrust out an arm to fend off the man's long, pale hand as it reached for him, and placed it gently on Malcolm's temple. That this dark, swaddled shape in a long coat and faceless shadows could be here in his room at all was troubling enough. That he behaved as if Malcolm should somehow know him was worse. Malcolm stood his ground, trembling in his thin pajamas, and waited. After all, the echo in his head repeated randomly, Reeds didn't let any man stare them down.  
  
There was a burning sensation like the tingle in his skin when he held an ice cube too long, and then, quick as it had come, it was gone. The hand touching his face moved away, still so slow and careful, and Malcolm saw a tattoo of an arrow across the fine web of bone on the back, an arrow pointing up into the darkness of the man's black sleeve.   
  
M . . . mister? Malcolm asked, his stammer amplified now into a true stutter. W . . . what's wrong?  
  
the man replied. Forget about it. You'll know, one day. When we're ready for you to know.  
  
Those words stunned Malcolm into a paralysis that numbed all but his runaway mouth, but it was intrigue rather than fear that held the words in his head long after they were whispered. I . . . I don't know what you're talking about, he protested.   
  
Moonlight and raindrop-shadows dappled the hooded face like a leopard skin. As Malcolm watched the man in the long black coat turned, and vanished from the room in a swish of whispering black silk.  
  
Malcolm sat at the window all night, watching the town as lights winked in and out, watching the rest of the world sleep. Because, personally, he didn't feel very much like sleeping any more.  
  
-------------------------------------


	2. CHILL BLUE

CHILL BLUE[  


  
It had been a welcome opportunity, and T'Pol had silently appreciated that she had been included in the away team for this mission. It was logical, of course, that the _Enterprise's_ science officer should be in a position to appraise and advise matters concerning the Vulcan Institute of Science And Communications, and also that the sole Vulcan crewmember be called upon to act as emissary and, if she were to be accurate, mediator between the Vulcan physicists and her human colleagues—but it was also a refreshing experience, intellectually, to be among like-minded individuals for a short time.   
  
The tour had been instructive, and T'Pol considered the time profitably spent. The captain, she had nevertheless detected, had been less than impressed by the advances of the communications department. The signs had gone unnoticed by their Vulcan guides, but in her time aboard the _Enterprise_ she had grown accustomed to the little gestures each human invariably relied upon to subconsciously express various extremes of emotion. When the captain was mentally lacking in stimulation, a process he referred to as bored', he coughed a lot.  
  
If you would prefer to retire for a few hours, Captain, I am more than capable of gathering any pertinent information, she had offered, a short time into their tour.   
  
No thanks, I'm fine. And he had coughed again, masking the sound behind one curled fist. T'Pol could understand the benefits of covering one's mouth when emitting contagious germs, but even she had known that this was not the reason Archer chose to do so. She had not offered again.  
  
Their meeting with the heads of department had been scheduled for 20:00hrs ship time. She refrained from adjusting back into Vulcan methods of timekeeping, if only for the sake of the captain and Lieutenant Reed. She and the captain were in attendance at the appointed time, seated around the clean white table in the main visitors' suite. The table, she noted with approval, was round. This was of mild interest to her, viewed somewhat differently from the last time she sat in conference among her own people—there was an earth legend, supposedly, pertaining to an order of warriors whom had traditionally seated themselves around a circular table, to avoid discriminations and the elevation of one individual above another. When it pleased them, humans could display startling evidence of logic.  
  
At precisely 20:00hrs Sparek and T'Lau, respectively heads of the science and communications research departments, arrived, and greeted her and the captain with formal Vulcan courtesy. Sparek was the elder of the two, displaying the first signs of gray in his hair and early evidence of lines grooving his face—and, in T'Pol's opinion, appeared modestly dignified. T'Lau was younger, barely older than she, and of less stern but equally controlled countenance.   
  
Of Lieutenant Reed there had been no sign.  
  
You are missing a crewman, Captain Archer, Sparek intoned passionlessly. His companion indicated his agreement with a token raised eyebrow.   
  
Mr. Reed is usually very reliable, I'm sure he just got held up, Archer replied, matching the toneless quality perfectly. T'Pol was faintly surprised, and impressed, at his control.  
  
He should be with us presently, she confirmed, feeling her compatriots may be in need of a translation. The captain's vocabulary could be somewhat . . . unorthodox. Perhaps we could begin and brief him when he arrives.   
  
The two Vulcans nodded silently, and seated themselves in the opposing seats to T'Pol and Archer. The seat facing the tall, slender windows in one wall remained empty, proclamatory in their composed silence. T'Pol noted the uneasy shuffle of the captain's feet beneath the table, and mentally addendumned her growing list of human idiosyncrasies. When embarrassed, they fidgeted.  
  
Mr. Sparek, perhaps you could tell us why you contacted us? Archer began.  
  
Sparek had barely opened his mouth to reply when the outer door to the plaza was thrown open, buffeted back against the wall by the force of the storm outside. Lieutenant Reed did not so much enter as appear to be spat inside by the strength of the rising gale.   
  
Archer slipped from his seat before T'Pol or her counterparts could offer a word of acknowledgment, approaching Reed with a cringing determination she had witnessed in similar, if slightly more volatile, situations. He reached out and patted Reed's sleeve, his brow creasing in puzzlement. The three Vulcans did not need tactile contact to confirm information seen by their own eyes, another trait T'Pol had catalogued as expected of humans. Archer had merely been testing with a second sense what any logical being could accept from only one.  
  
Mr. Reed, T'Pol said, speaking for them all. You appear to be dry.  
  
Well, give that woman a cigar, Reed replied—and she noted a pertinent, if hardly unprecedented thing. It was Mr. Reed's custom, when disturbed or anxious in some way, to avert his eyes and speak rather to an inanimate object than the individual to whom he addressed the comment. He appeared to be studying the floor quite meticulously. I just walked here in my own private bubble of summer.  
  
The four of them gave him a look, and said nothing.  
  
----------------------------------------  
  
How so, Lieutenant? T'Pol asked, archly.  
  
Reed blinked at the sudden whiteness, the starched, vibrant glare of pristine walls and floor and ceiling, translucent flares of light spiraling across his vision at the shock. For a moment, or maybe more than a moment, he had been seeing storm lit darkness—not the carefully-lit, somehow protected darkness of the institute's plaza, but a deeper blackness, and a colder light; the darkness at the bottom of his closet, and the flash of lightning over distant houses . . . the dance of shadows in a stranger's eye.   
  
Forget about it, Reed replied, a brief flicker of a glance alighting on T'Pol before his focus returned to the captain. Sorry I'm late, sir. The weather's been a little . . . unpredictable.  
  
From what I can see, the weather looks positively schizophrenic, Archer tried to joke. Reed appreciated the effort, but he wasn't fooled—he knew that this would be discussed once away from the watchful eyes and prying pointy ears of the two Vulcan scientists.   
  
He took his seat sheepishly, a little dismayed that it faced the window and the tumultuous weather outside, and the captain did likewise. T'Pol and the two strange Vulcans gave him a doubtful glance, and imperiously nodded in greeting.   
  
Captain Archer, T'Lau began, we contacted you to request this meeting because we have a proposition we wish to put to you.  
  
So I gathered. What did you have in mind?  
  
T'Lau appeared about to reply when T'Pol interceded. Perhaps, T'Lau, you would oblige us by giving a brief explanation of your work here. For the benefit of Lieutenant Reed. She directed a wry, scarcely perceptible glance to him, her perfectly-shaped eyebrow forming the question mark her statements so far had been missing. Reed turned his eyes away, hoping to conceal the blush he felt sting his cheeks, but the only direction left to look in was to the flares and bolts outside. Looking firmly at the captain, he said:  
  
Sounds like I missed something, sir.  
  
Only lots of big words.  
  
Reed smiled.  
  
With respect, Captain Archer, T'Lau protested, it was for the very reason we contacted you that we thought it prudent to brief you on the basics of our research here. We have recently been entrusted with some important information for the attention of the Vulcan High Command. One of our ships is in orbit around Titrinus waiting to receive it, a light-year from this location. We would be . . . grateful . . . if you would agree to be the courier.  
  
Archer stirred in his seat, shifting his weight forward onto his resting elbows. Why would you ask us to carry this . . . information? From what I remember the Vulcans make it a policy not to disclose any more than they have to.  
  
Captain . . . I trust you recall Klaang? Sparek continued. The data he carried was embedded at a molecular level using a technique still in its early stages of development. We, here, have been working to perfect a similar technique. Unfortunately our genetic structure is copper based, an environment which has been proven to cause serious corruption of data in our controlled tests. We require a human to carry this information.  
  
And . . . you want me to risk one of my crew for this . . . this favor? Archer challenged. Has this technique even been tested on humans?  
  
T'Lau looked back with cold, infinite calm. he said.  
  
And which of my crew did you expect me to offer up as a lab rat? Or were you hoping for a volunteer?  
  
This would be a matter of utmost security, Captain, Sparek explained. Obliquely. Reed, remaining silent till now as the captain debated, did not miss the obvious connotations. If the captain reached the same conclusion, he gave no sign of it.  
  
What is this information? Reed asked.  
  
That is a matter for the Vulcan High Command, T'Lau replied. If they felt that you would understand, they would no doubt share it with you.  
  
I guess we'll have to agree to disagree on that one, Archer mumbled.  
  
If we were to agree to this, this . . . Reed waved a hand vaguely in the air. . . . no offense, but what would be in it for us? I mean it could well be taking us several days off our current course, and putting unnecessary strain on our systems. _Not to mention mine, _he thought.  
  
We have an extensive database of star charts in this facility, Sparek replied. We would be willing to share these in exchange for safe passage of the data.  
  
There was a silence, broken only by the spiteful growl of thunder low in the hills, the dash of rain against the tall windows, and the lancing flare of intermittent lightning. It was then that it happened—in one especially violent, striking white flash which lit the room with chill blue neon, Reed felt the brush of cold, creeping fingers on his temple, and felt hot, bubbling breath on his neck. Like soda, popping, fizzing, smelling faintly of lemonade.  
  
He jumped, shying aside in his seat. T'Pol looked at him oddly.  
  
Is something the matter, Lieutenant? she asked.  
  
No, no, he hastened. It's nothing.  
_   
Forget about it. You'll know, one day. When we're ready for you to know.  
_   
Well, Captain? pressed Sparek, softly. What is your decision?  
  
Archer opened his mouth to protest once more, but Reed jumped ahead, hardly understanding the thrum in his head that put the words there or the eerie, detached calm of hearing his own voice put them forward, and said:  
  
I'll do it, Captain. That is . . . if you're willing to let me.  



	3. LUCID NIGHTMARES

LUCID NIGHTMARES  
  
_You're sure about this, Malcolm?_  
  
It came a dozen times, a dozen different ways, each testing for a desired answer—and each, inevitably, drawing the opposite. _You're sure about this, Malcolm?_ Each time the captain pressed the question, it was Reed's mouth that opened to reply—and somebody else's words that came out. Maybe it was still a part of him, the little bit that had given up being afraid of the storm and had sat at his window watching the lightning strike, but still it did not feel his own.   
  
Three accompanied him to the lab; Sparek, T'Lau, and the captain. T'Pol excused herself with the intention of contacting the _Enterprise_ and relaying their course changes to Commander Tucker, and Reed saw Archer breathe a sigh of relief; three Vulcans in one room was hardly the captain's idea of a party.   
  
The storm beat against the shaded windows of the main laboratory they were escorted to, waves of rain surging against the building like a sea trying to claw its way inside. Reed shuddered, quietly. He could not help but think it was trying to pound its way in to _him_.   
  
T'Lau showed him to a biobed at the center of the spartan lab, a reclining chair-like contraption with headrest and—he tried not to dwell on these—restraining straps. Reed climbed on, eyeing the straps pointedly. Captain Archer stood back to the head of the biobed, tense as a coil ready to spring. The two Vulcans took pains to ignore the captain, and despite their expressionless plaster cast faces gave an unmistakable air of wanting him gone.   
  
Perhaps you would like to assist the subcommander, Captain? T'Lau suggested coldly, arranging a series of unfamiliar implements on a tray. We may be some time.  
  
T'Pol can take care of herself, I'm sure. Thanks, but I'd rather be here.  
  
T'Lau inclined his head politely—but, somehow, in a way that was anything but polite. As you wish, Captain. He's your crewman.  
  
Archer replied crisply, a faceless sound from behind Reed's reclined head. Only his shadow, falling askew on the far wall, allowed Reed to see the rigid set of the captain's spine. He is.  
  
It's all right, Captain, Reed reassured him. I'm a big boy now. Although I do feel oddly like I'm visiting the dentist. Should I say Aah?  
  
Archer laughed, a gesture that made the two Vulcans visibly bristle. I'm sure this won't take long.  
  
Sparek gave them both a look of obvious distaste, again without moving a single facial muscle. he said.  
  
Lightning lanced the bruised sky outside, making Reed jump. Thunder answered with a grumbled threat. It's directly overhead, I'd say. Does it always storm so much around here?  
  
It is part of our work, Sparek returned. Reed waited for more, but Sparek had set his mouth grimly, and no further explanation seemed forthcoming.  
  
So, exactly what is this technique' you've been talking about? Archer said, with a buoyancy Reed felt sure was fake. I have to say I'd feel a lot better handing over one of my top officers if I knew what this involved.   
  
T'Lau raised his black-haired head from the array of medical implements, hyposprays, and data padds regimentally aligned on the sterilized tray. We have been making an extensive study into nanotechnology.  
  
Reed echoed, half-intrigued, half-apprehensive. Starfleet had, as far as he knew, made only limited investigations into such technology, and all entirely theoretical.  
  
Submicroscopic robotic organisms, if calling largely inorganic machines organisms is not a gross contradiction. They are capable of repairing tissue damage, and you may find that scars and other minor imperfections clear during the nine days you carry the nanobots. However, their primary function is to carry encrypted data. They will react only minimally with you.  
  
Archer noted, at once. What is it you Vulcans don't want us to see?  
  
T'Lau conceded the question with a dip of his head. As we have already discussed and as, no doubt, your science officer will inform you, it is the decision of the Vulcan High Command with whom to share this information. Perhaps when the mission is complete an arrangement could be reached to apprise you of the situation.  
  
Archer growled low in his throat, a sound only Reed was close enough to catch, and which mirrored his own reaction perfectly. He was less than thrilled, perhaps even uneasy, about becoming courier to an unknown message. It breached every security protocol in Starfleet—but the pull that had opened his mouth and used his vocal cords to relay answers he didn't want to give was stronger, a magnet drawing a helpless pin to it, and he bit down on the uncertainty beginning to creep in.   
  
I warn you, he said, resting back on the biobed, eyes staring straight upwards into the bar lights glaring down on him through the swarthy storm-shadows that rippled on the white walls, if I wake up bald or my ears get pointy, you'll be the first to know about it.  
  
Sparek approached the biobed with a hypospray half-raised to the bloated white light, stepping into the flare of lightning streaking past the tinted glass behind—and in an instant, one freeze-frame of darkness in a brightly-lit movie, Sparek was not Sparek, but a misty black hole cut in the room's very fiber, and there was the foaming, tangy smell of lemonade.  
  
The hypospray pressed into his neck, and everything went black.  
  
----------------------------------------  
  
One form melted to another, no less familiar, no less dispassionate, ageless, cryptic . . . cold. One blackness descended into another. The storm faded to a tranquil night whose still, radiant air held no trace of moisture. The mingled scent of ozone and bubbling citrus clarified to one; of apples, heavy with juice and slumbering rot on the tree, decaying on the ground, soaking the night with an intoxicating cider taste.  
  
Reed blinked, his eyes focusing slowly on the distant pinpoints of light in the purple velvet overhead. After so much bright light, so featureless and austere, the dimness was pleasant, but difficult to adjust to. This did not feel like a dream; he was lucid, aware, holding every memory of waking life unbroken and unsullied. But this was not a conscious memory, either. Memory could build one environment in the mind but the body would be aware still of its physical place and surroundings, but here, the grass beneath his feet felt real, the breeze blowing waves of fragrant apple fumes against his face felt real. It _was _real. As he underwent the Vulcan anesthetic, he had not slept, but had been transported to this; a dream painted by a forgotten memory. As the details of his surroundings became clearer, the memory took shape, drawn to the surface . . . as the memory of that storm so many years ago had resurfaced, only earlier tonight.   
  
He was not far from that other memory here, both chronologically and logistically speaking. It was the park not far from his childhood home, his old bedroom window visible to the eye if he turned his head, and although he could not remember how much time had passed between, he was certain he had still been very much a child. But the memory, as yet, was incomplete. He remembered this place, this sky, remembered standing here as a boy and gazing up at the distant stars . . . but he did not remember what happened next.   
  
Perhaps this lucid dreaming of forgotten times was one of the side effects the Vulcans had warned him about. Reed supposed he could accept the effect as it was, seeing no harm in it . . . but still he wondered, somewhat sickly, what other lost gems his mind may throw up in sleep.   
  
Relax, Malcolm, just relax. Nothing lasts forever, he muttered to himself. Not even nightmares.  
  
It seemed he was here for the duration of the procedure, however long that may prove to be. They had said it may be quite a while, and despite the captain's thoughtful optimism Reed believed them. He hopped up on the low wall, eyes turned appreciatively to the minefield of far-off lights above, and waited.  
  
Ribbons of memories flashed past him as he sat there, ribbons like quicksilver winding thin, intangible streams he could almost reach out and grasp—but not. The recollection of more, of what had driven the six-year-old Malcolm outside on this fine night and what had happened here after was there, but beyond his reach, just yet. He swung his feet, as the child version of himself would have done, and waited.  
  
----------------------------------------  
  
In the lab, Archer watched fretfully as his armory officer's eyes moved rapidly behind his eyelids, almost manic in their speed.  
  
Is that normal? Archer asked, indicating the unconscious Reed.  
  
There will be side effects, Sparek informed him again, tonelessly. In fact, there are some possible effects which we would like to discuss with you, while he is unconscious. It would have been . . . unbefitting . . . for him to be aware of these. In some cases, Captain, some rare cases, the nanobots can cause hallucinations.  
  
Archer repeated, crisply.  
  
T'Lau nodded. His perception of reality may become very different from yours. This should pass, if it even occurs. As we have said, this has not been fully tested on humans.  
  
Archer huffed impatiently, and let them do their job.  
  
But he wasn't happy about it.  
  
----------------------------------------  
  
What's a young lad like you doing out here at this time of night?  
  
Malcolm turned to the voice behind him with the barest hint of a smile touching his lips. He recognized the words as they were spoken—no more, no less, but this line, at least, was returning to him. Whether the rest would follow, he wouldn't like to say.   
  
He was hardly surprised, almost indulgent, when he saw the tall figure in its long, dark coat, motionlessly watching him with eyes too shadowed in his hood to see even a glint of them.  
  
_Young lad like you. _Although, to Malcolm's eyes, he still had the mind and body of a fully grown adult, he was apparently playing the part of his younger self, and his reply was the reply he had given as a child. He opened his mouth to reply, hardly expecting to find anything worth saying—but words from all those years ago flooded out.  
  
he said.   
  
Then why come out here?  
  
I'm a big boy now. I can take care of myself.  
  
The man, if man he even was, took a seat on the wall, a little way from Malcolm. You like the stars, don't you?  
  
Malcolm drew breath painfully, feeling it pull in his ribs like a grappler. When he spoke, his voice shook against his will. Then he remembered; his voice _had _shaken, back then. His breathing had been pained, drawn, strung from too deep in his chest.  
  
He had been crying.  
  
Yes, sir, he sniffed, softly. Everything looks so much simpler up there.  
  
You sound like a world-weary octogenarian. What makes life here so difficult?  
  
Malcolm shrugged, miserably. As this twisted play-act went on and he repeated words from long ago, he found himself remembering, reliving, each tiny piece. Mum took me to a doctor for my allergies. I've got to stay away from dust mites, and . . . and oak pollen — he smiled ruefully — but Dad . . . he says a real man doesn't let a little thing like allergies stop him. He thinks I'm soft. Maybe he's right.  
  
The man edged a little closer, his coat dragging across the rough top of the wall as he moved, and that frothing scent crept slowly into Malcolm's nose again, blotting out the dense cider. One day, the man whispered, humans will travel to the stars. There will be ships, exploring space like man once explored the ocean . . .  
  
The ocean? Malcolm interrupted. Dad wants me to join the Navy when I leave school. Will people really travel out of the solar system at twice the speed of light, like Henry Archer says?  
  
The man nodded. Think about it, Malcolm. There's plenty of room in deep space for people like you.  
  
How did you know my . . .  
  
But the man, even as Malcolm spoke, was gone, leaving only that swish of silk and the lingering, heady after-scent of soda.  
  
. . . name? he ended, in a whisper.  



	4. DO VULCANS DREAM OF LOGICAL SHEEP?

I wanted to step in here and say thanks to everybody reading, be it this or Parallax', which is underway at the moment as well. I don't know that I could ever push myself so hard to write regularly and to the best of my ability without the reviews and support. Thanks!  
  
DO VULCANS DREAM OF LOGICAL SHEEP?  
  
Thin rays of colorless sun pierced the dispersing clouds, viscous membranes containing purplish, bloated leftovers of the rain. The light caught in the pools left around the central plaza, and the fresh, new-washed scent of watered vegetation rose from the ground amid the cultivated trees and lawns. The storm broke as the day did, light chasing back cloud and shadow.  
  
Reed had waked in the earliest threads of dawn, his head feeling dense and swollen, and his ears ringing with the drill of phantom raindrops. It was little surprise to him that he woke back in his assigned quarters, in the bunk he had not previously had occasion to use, and alone. Vulcans were not known for their sentimentality, and the captain, he presumed, had been called away to finalize details of this . . . favor. He found the dimness and quiet in the room to be almost sacred; a revelation on waking, discovering that what had felt so real had not been anything more than a manifestation of his own mind.  
  
But it hadn't felt like that. No, it hadn't.  
  
He went out into the early morning sunshine, cold light that would warm as the institute awoke, and sat on the brightest area of grass, scorning the straight-backed benches the Vulcans had thought to inflict on the place. His headache was no better, but the clearing sky and empty plaza had not been intended to kill his headache. It was his own wandering memories, suddenly stirred like disturbed attic dust, that he wanted to kill. Burying them, each one, had been no easy task the first time . . . and he knew that, if he had taken such effort back then to forget them, then they were better _left _forgotten.  
  
The allergies weren't his fault, something Reed knew now . . . but back then . . . back then, when his father scoffed and proclaimed the doctor a soft-soaping scare-mongering quack, the impressionable six-year-old Malcolm had believed him. All the doctor was doing, according to the Gospel of Stuart Reed, was encouraging a healthy boy to make medical excuses for failure.   
  
His mother had nevertheless made an effort to secure the pills and the carefully monitored diet her son needed, and the incident had almost been buried with the rest . . . until now.  
  
There is perfectly adequate seating provided in the plaza, Lieutenant, came a sultry, straitlaced voice behind him. He turned to see T'Pol, her downturned head framed with a halo of soft white sun-haze. The light was misty around them this early in the day.  
  
I just felt the urge to sit on the grass, Subcommander, he replied, faintly amused at her inability to understand the whim.  
  
As I see. And you find that sullying your clothing with earth and grass stains more restful than remaining clean and maintaining good posture on ergonomically-designed furnishing?  
  
Reed smiled, whimsically. Care to join me? It's a splendid morning.  
  
I fail to see the logic behind sitting where it would better suit a dog to sit.  
  
You don't know what you're missing till you try it. Reed's voice stalled, his attention leaving the brightly arrayed sight of T'Pol and wandering away into the trees nearby. It's a throwback to childhood for us humans, I guess.  
  
T'Pol regarded him crisply a moment, the considerations passing over her flawlessly set face like the shadows of the drifting clouds. He saw her chest heave, as if drawing breath on a decision reached, and then, primly, she sat cross-legged on the grass with him.  
  
The dew does present a problem, she declared, settling herself so as little of her body as possible was in direct contact with the ground, but it is an acceptable detraction.  
  
Glad to hear it.  
  
Birdsong filled the silence with musical chatter as T'Pol manoeuvred her way into a position in which she felt comfortable. Then she spoke again. The captain has asked me to . . . keep an eye on you, for the duration of this mission. He felt that until the risk of side effects could be settled you should not be left alone longer than need be.  
  
Well, that's very kind of him, I'm sure, Reed replied, but why did he choose you? Forgive me but you hardly strike me as the baby-sitting type.  
  
He feared you may become irrational or else succumb to a very sudden change of some kind, T'Pol obliged. He rightly concluded that an unemotional chaperone would be the wisest choice.  
  
Reed twitched. Well, don't spare my feelings, T'Pol, tell me what you really think. It's nice to know the captain has total confidence in these little . . . whatever they are.  
  
  
  
Nanobots. Of course. The silence returned, and what had been a pleasant and seeping hush in his own company was now stilted and self-conscious in T'Pol's.  
  
Is the captain collecting those star charts? he asked, for the sake of keeping the flow of words alive than for the question itself.   
  
I believe the agreement is that the charts be provided upon delivery of the data. She seemed uncomfortable relaying this information, and she was right to be.  
  
I'll bet the captain loved that, Reed muttered. Can't say I'm too thrilled myself.  
  
They considered it a necessary precaution.  
  
Oh. And do you?  
  
T'Pol gave him a frosty look, softened only minimally by the pale gold of the misty sunrise. I have greater experience in dealing with humans. I therefore can rely on that experience rather than to strict security measures.  
  
Thanks for the vote of confidence.  
  
T'Pol ignored the dig. If it is any consolation, I consider their choice of crewmember to be the correct one, she said, a little more softly.  
  
Reed returned her glance with surprise. Then I suppose I can assume this procedure's fairly safe. Or else they would have used somebody more expendable. He was only half joking.  
  
T'Pol maintained her direct, cool stare, and said nothing. The silence behind the birdsong seeped back in.  
  
he ventured, at last.  
  
Yes, Mr. Reed?  
  
Do Vulcans dream?  
  
The mobile Vulcan eyebrows inclined themselves upwards, almost imperceptibly. Dreaming is a necessary brain function in which the events of the day are reviewed and catalogued, she replied. Of course we dream. But we Vulcans do not place the same importance on the nature of those dreams as humans do.  
  
Reed nodded, a little disappointed with the answer, hardly knowing what else he had expected. But do you . . . do you ever come across repressed memories in a dream? Something you'd entirely forgotten about?  
  
T'Pol tilted her head, considering his poorly veiled eagerness uncomfortably hard. Why do you ask, Lieutenant? Is there a specific incident you have in mind?'  
  
Her effortless deductions cut him to the quick. There was no being subtle with a Vulcan. She had understood, perhaps better than a human could ever hope to, that it was no idle speculation.  
  
In the lab, I . . . when I was under the anaesthetic I had a dream. Only it felt more like those holograms Commander Tucker's always talking about. He waited for her to forward any questions she might have, but when she met him with silence, he continued regardless. I knew I was dreaming, and it was sort of familiar, but . . . well, I lived out a repressed memory from when I was six years old.  
  
T'Pol nodded, her concession to gentle encouragement. What was this memory? Does it have any bearing on our current mission?  
_   
Once again, she's there before me, _he thought . . . but did not say. I have no idea. I mean, it's funny I should be getting these memories back now, but I can't see the connection.  
  
Perhaps if you relate the incident in question I could be of more assistance.  
  
Reed laughed weakly, a half-vocalized breath that was closer to a sigh. I knew that was coming. All right. But you have to promise it won't go any further. It's nobody's business but mine.  
  
You have my assurance that it will remain between us, she replied.  
  
He took a deep breath, and told her.


	5. THINK OF THE STARS

THINK OF THE STARS  
  
T'Pol paid careful attention to the information, nodding at appropriate intervals, and never interrupting his chain of thought. The lieutenant's reticence concerning personal details would be an admirable quality in a Vulcan, but among humans she had discovered that such caution was frowned upon, and brought about more of their uncomfortable fidgeting. In some ways, he was as much an outsider as she.  
  
Lieutenant Reed fell silent as his story trailed off into nothing, ending with the disappearance of the mysterious stranger in the dark coat. He didn't ask her for an opinion or beg reassurance, but waited for her to comment.   
  
Are you certain this event even happened? Dreams can be . . . convincing.  
  
I'm sure, Subcommander. I wouldn't be mistaken about something like this.  
_   
Perhaps not in ordinary circumstances, _T'Pol thought, but kept it diplomatically to herself. The captain had warned her against alarming him unnecessarily concerning side effects and the like.   
  
Then perhaps you should attempt to recover further memories concerning this she said instead.  
  
And how do you suggest I do that?  
  
She detected his skepticism—a trait particularly noticeable in Mr. Reed—but ignored the challenge inherent in it. I have always found meditation to be a useful aid. She glanced sidelong at the lieutenant, noting the ripple in his cheek that signified some internal frustration. Perhaps not, she added, under her breath.  
  
She watched him silently a moment, noting the tight set of his mouth and jaw and the deliberate avoidance of her gaze. The rising sun cast shadows into the lines and hollows of his face, pooling in bruised rings under his eyes. He looked, for all his hours unconscious, far from rested.   
  
I may be able to be of assistance, she said, at last. Consciously she dropped her voice to a murmur, mirroring the hush of the plaza, echoing the gravity of the offer she made. It was not something she would often venture, something the Vulcan people were uncomfortable discussing with humans, and which remained, for T'Pol, a deeply personal matter. But if she had learned one useful recommendation for integrating herself more fully with humans, it was to emulate their basic need to share'. But it requires contact.  
  
What kind of contact? he asked suspiciously, eyeing her with that same, reserved skepticism.  
  
If you would . . . allow me. T'Pol slowly, cautiously, reached across the space between them, fingers extended, and lifted his lax hand from his knee. He tensed, his gaze following her movements until her intentions became clear, and finally he permitted her to take his hand. What are you . . ? he began, but she hushed him with a slight shake of her head.   
  
Trust me. It is a technique to aid concentration and focus which Vulcans have practiced since we first began to embrace pure logic. It will enable me to guide you in retrieving this lost memory.  
  
Practiced? You mean you're not very good at it yet? he tried to joke, but it sounded somewhat peevish to T'Pol—an attempt to disguise his reservations.  
  
I am merely an intermediate compared to many of the Vulcan High Command, but I am accomplished. You have no cause for concern.  
  
That's easy for you to say.  
  
T'Pol hushed him again, inclining her head in a warning, passive nod. Her eyes caught Reed's and held them, drilling, direct, a lancing intent from one to the other. His hand went utterly still in hers.   
  
she trilled, softly. Do you remember the events that led to the incident in question?  
  
he admitted, reluctant to give even this much of himself away.   
  
Close your eyes, she directed. He stared at her. Ensign Sato did not appear so reluctant to comply with my guidance, T'Pol observed pointedly.  
  
There was only the briefest moment of consideration before he obeyed, and did so silently. T'Pol congratulated herself—it was common, she had ascertained, for human males to become intimidated by the successes of the females. Their competitive spirit was rarely more apparent.   
  
Am I supposed to be chanting or something? Maybe wave a pungent candle about? Reed prevaricated again.  
  
Neither did Ensign Sato feel the need to make inappropriate jokes to lessen her embarrassment.  
  
Lieutenant Reed said nothing; but he straightened his back a little, set his teeth, and waited. T'Pol did not expect an apology.   
  
Now. Think of the scene as it was; where were you?   
  
The park.  
  
And had you been in the park for long?  
  
He shook his head infinitesimally, and the palm her fingertips carefully pressed began to sweat lightly.   
  
Had you come directly from home?  
  
Mr. Reed's chest had stilled, breathless and expectant, his spine rigid as he sat, caught between waking and sleeping.   
  
she commanded softly, and think of the stars. Had you come from home?  
  
I don't . . .  
  
But before he could profess amnesia, be it true or feigned, Mr. Reed ceased to be sitting in front of her. The plaza, and the grass, vanished. T'Pol found herself somewhere quite different.  
  
--------------------------------  
  
T'Pol looked about her at the place she had been brought to, the first instant of surprise quickly put aside. It was a house, human by design, utilitarian in style and personality. The decor was plain, serviceable, unfussed—surroundings any Vulcan would approve of, and which, if her experience stood her in good stead to draw such conclusions, were far from acceptable to most humans' way of thinking. This room was evidently a dining area; there was a table set in preparation for a meal, four places made ready. Through an open doorway to her left T'Pol's sensitive nose detected the over-rich scents of a typical human evening meal. She blinked at the unmistakable odor of cooked meat, and turned aside from the entryway to the kitchen hastily.   
  
From behind her came the sound of a small girl's giggle, and T'Pol turned to see a blonde female child of indeterminate age come crashing through the opposing doorway—from a living area, presumably. Behind the girl, no less quickly but with greater control of his vocal cords, came a dark haired, somber-faced little boy. The serious features, recognizable for all the years of hard work stripped from them in this place, were creasing intermittently into a strangled gulp of laughter. Admirably, the boy lieutenant contained it.  
  
Will you two be quiet! a stentorian voice bellowed from the doorway, and a man, his grim, granite face set into a thin-lipped mask, entered the room. Already a theory was forming in T'Pol's mind . . . the surroundings, the children, all pointed to the same impossible conclusion. Neither the girl nor the man gave any sign of having seen her; but she saw the boy's eyes flicker, for a moment too fleeting to grasp as anything more than coincidence, to the space she occupied in what was clearly, inconceivably, his memory. He dismissed whatever doubt had swept over him barely a second later.  
  
Leave them be, honey, came a woman's voice from the kitchen area. They're only playing.  
  
They're undisciplined little monsters, that's what they are, the man replied.  
  
The boy and girl stopped, abruptly. The girl's face was only embarrassed, the giggling prudently halted; but the boy's face was downturned, paled, a certain sign of fear in any human. If she had any doubt as to the identities of this family before now—and she had few, seeing a resemblance between boy and man that undeniably confirmed it—she now knew unequivocally that this man was Mr. Reed's father. The girl was his sister. And the voice she had heard belonged to his mother.   
  
The woman now appeared from the kitchen area, carrying a lidded platter in both hands. The scent of roasted animal carcass intensified, and T'Pol blinked again, startled. Mr. Reed certainly had a vivid memory. For it _was _his memory, of that she was now certain. She did not know how she had come to be here, or why, but here she was. In his mind. The realization brought with it associations she would have chosen to leave in the past; associations of Tolaris, and an experience better left forgotten.  
  
Malcolm, honey, I left your pills in the kitchen. Would you fetch them for me? They're on the counter.  
  
The boy obeyed silently. T'Pol could not help but raise an eyebrow. Somehow she had not expected that of Mr. Reed, even a junior version.   
  
I told you not to encourage him, the senior Reed said cuttingly, taking his place at the table. The little girl did likewise, clambering in an ungainly manner into a chair too high for her short stature. That quack's got a lot to answer for, filling his head with the idea that he's special. All it's doing it giving him the perfect excuse to fail.  
  
The doctor was quite explicit, Mrs. Reed said, nervously. Malcolm is definitely allergic to a number of tropical grasses and oak pollens. Not to mention dust mites. We wouldn't want to make him ill, would we? He'll be of no use to anybody like that.  
  
At that moment, the young Malcolm returned from the kitchen, carrying a small plastic pill bottle, and set it on the table. Malcolm placed it carefully beside his knife and took his seat, with somewhat more agility than his sister. It was the quick, supple quality that would make him a fine security officer, one day.   
  
Leave them, Malcolm, his father bit, his glare alighting first on the boy, then on the mother, then back to the boy again. You don't need those. They're nothing more than expensive chalk, everybody knows that. Take that — He indicated the bottle Malcolm had retrieved with a wave of his hand, — back into the kitchen.  
  
Malcolm hesitated, glancing between both his parents for confirmation. T'Pol could see, better than the child could, that he would get no such agreement between the two.   
  
But Dad . . . T'Pol turned to the voice with renewed intrigue. It was the first time the young Reed had spoken, and his voice trembled a little, as if he knew it would not be well received. I don't want one of those asthma attacks again. It was really bad.  
  
You'll do as I tell you, his father stated flatly, inarguably. T'Pol felt her aversion to humans, something which had faded in her time on the _Enterprise_, begin to swell again. It was men like this that had convinced the Vulcan High Command to be cautious in their dealings with them in the first place.   
  
The boy jumped, and climbed out of his seat again, taking the bottle with him. T'Pol was drawn to his face as he did so; paler than before, graver, eyes turned down still. She had some experience, perhaps more than any Vulcan, of human facial expressions; this one was sad, and afraid.  
  
She followed the boy as he carried the bottle to the kitchen and pushed it back onto the counter. She expected him to return to the dining area, but he did not. Instead, he took one long, wavering look at the open back door, glanced once over his shoulder, and bolted.  
  
T'Pol followed him.  
  
--------------------------------  
  
She watched the events in the garden with the same keen interest; the stars, the apples, the heavy fragrance, were all as he had described to her. The man came, bringing his fizzy scent of confection and carbonated beverages. The conversation, the dark, swaddled shape—it all took place as he had repeated to her. She watched, she breathed, she listened; but she could make no more of the events than Lieutenant Reed himself had been able to.  
  
Then, seamlessly, restfully, they woke up.  
  
--------------------------------  
  
Lieutenant Reed opened his eyes slowly, blinking at the honeyed light after so much moonlit night. T'Pol remained silent.  
  
What just happened? I . . . I seemed to have nodded off there, for a moment, he said.  
  
That was not my intention, she replied.   
  
And what was your intention?  
  
T'Pol met his cool blue stare, noting the flinching, anxious quality to it, and made a swift decision. A logical decision.  
  
Merely to encourage your own memories to return, she said. Clearly, we failed.


	6. NIGHT WALK

NIGHT WALK  
  
_Enterprise's _living, lumbering thrum pulsed softly through Hoshi Sato where she lie in her bed, listening to the multilingual hierarchies of sound in the ship's engines. The sounds melted between layers to form a language, after a fashion; there was communication between reactant injectors and the dilithium matrix and the warp core, a trigger from one process to another as word triggers word. As each piece of the _Enterprise's _many-layered guts completed its task, it produced a certain sound, to which the next stage answered with its own. It was comforting, in a way, to know the _Enterprise _talked to herself.   
  
And, she had discovered, the ship had her own distinctive voice. She was proud and feline, her vibrations a low-throated purr, her speed that of a puma to match. Trip always said that he couldn't sleep with the warp engines off-line.   
  
She was beginning to agree with him.   
  
Hoshi lay now, wakeful and content, hands folded behind her head, enjoying the only language in the universe, including English, that Trip knew better than she did.  
  
She remained there for some time, watching each hour as it came, lamenting each as it passed. If she did not do more than doze soon, she would hardly be fit for duty in the morning. Already she had arrived on the bridge for two consecutive mornings with bloodshot eyes and a hand surreptitiously masking a yawn. The bridge crew, including Jon since the away team returned from VISAC, had pretended not to notice, which she considered very sweet of them—but there had been plenty of times in the past when he, at least, had something to say about her nervous insomnia.  
_   
That's how mistakes get made, Hoshi, _Jon—Captain Archer—had once told her. _A rested crewman, or woman, is a useful crewman. _  
  
There had been a time when she would have reminded him of his own erratic sleeping habits. She came close to it despite his rank, hoping to disguise it as respectful teasing even if her indignation were really at the root of it—but that, as they say, was another story.   
  
The previous mornings had been unearned grace, but Hoshi knew that one more incident would start tongues wagging. She had to get to sleep, and fast. Maybe Doctor Phlox would be able to give her something to help, if she asked. She got up, slipped on a robe and slippers, and left her quarters.  
  
There were advantages, she had discovered, to serving on a starship. For one thing, nothing was ever closed or unmanned. But the downside was that moving about unnoticed was all but impossible. If any of the active duty shift saw her out here in her pajamas and dressing gown, she'd die. Officially.  
  
The corridor was brilliant, almost achingly luminous, after the simulated night of her quarters, the lights making her blink rapidly against the afterghosts. She glanced to her left and to her right, like a child crossing the street, looking superficially for any sign of another human being (or Vulcan, or Denobulan), but listening far more intently, a process she was barely aware of any more, sifting through the layers for footsteps coming around the corner.  
  
Nothing. No, wait—there. There were footfalls, a single set, soft and barely audible below the comforting rumble of the ship's innards, as if their owner walked barefoot. Hoshi hesitated, intrigued; why would anyone go barefoot outside their quarters on the _Enterprise? _Even she had thought to find her slippers. And, by the bare whisper of it, this somebody was light on their feet. She pressed herself silently against her own doorway, and watched.  
  
Moments later she saw a shadow trace the wall of the corridor's outer curve, and Lieutenant Reed came into view, slowly following it. He _was _barefoot, she noted, but his feet were not the first thing to draw her helpless eyes, nor even the second; he was wearing nothing but his Starfleet-issue jockey shorts. His eyes were closed, his spiky brown hair crumpled and slept on.   
  
Lieutenant, I didn't know you walked in your sleep, she muttered to herself. She was amused, a little; and if she was embarrassed by his lack of clothing, then that did not prevent her from making a swift appraisal. Purely academic, of course.   
  
He did not hear her, and walked on.  
  
she echoed, knowing it would not wake him.   
  
He disappeared around the far bend.  
  
Malcolm Reed, you owe me big, Hoshi murmured, belted her robe tighter, and followed.  
  
---------------------------------  
  
Hoshi became his silent shadow, tracing his path through the network of half-slumbering corridors and whispering lifts, masking herself in the doorways and alcoves those few times she thought he might turn; but he never did turn, or hesitate, and Hoshi managed to remain undetected and did not wake him. She mentally prepared what she might say if a crewmember came by and saw this silent midnight ballet, but luckily, none did. There was very little to say but the truth.  
  
Reed was leading her, with little of his customary grace but with an unerring ability to avoid obstructions, pause for lifts, and make the correct turnings. As if someone were whispering in his ear, guiding him. Every movement was decisive, yet ambiguous; he sometimes abruptly chose a turn only to slow resistantly against it at the last.  
  
He was heading, however ambivalently, for engineering.   
  
Malcolm Reed, what are you up to? she whispered, not without affection, and followed. As far as she could see, he was wandering in answer to the influence of a dream, from the fine sheen of sweat on his skin not a pleasant one. Perhaps if she gave him his distance, he would eventually return to his quarters alone or else wake from it unaided. Even from here, she could hear his breathing clearly over the lyrical hum of the engines, harsh, draining, feverish. He sounded scared, but excited. She wished she could see his face, but his rigid shoulders and straight back were to her, and she could not see.   
  
Engineering ran on a skeleton crew during the graveyard shift, but it was by no means empty. Hoshi had to slip into an alcove within seconds of entering to avoid being seen by two passing crewmen. To her surprise, Reed instinctively did likewise, although after witnessing his confident yet argumentative navigation she should have expected it. He was asleep, no doubt of that, but was somehow still miraculously aware of his surroundings.  
  
He was away again once the coast cleared, dodging and weaving between alcoves, shadows, and consoles that offered shelter from sight. Hoshi, determined not to be seen in engineering in her pajamas and slippers shadowing a half-naked Reed, but by now concerned he may inadvertently harm himself, was helpless to do anything but follow.   
  
He knew, or whatever directed him knew, where he was going, and that worried her. It was as if he had a specific agenda here, and was not merely sleepwalking in answer to some vivid dream. Nobody saw them pass by, the shut-eyed armory officer and his pensive shadow. Whatever this bizarre behavior led to, whatever its purpose, she was on her own.  
  
---------------------------------  
  
He paused, at last, beside a conduit set behind a panel in the wall. Hoshi had taken an elementary engineering course to qualify for this position on the _Enterprise, _but most of it had quietly left her head since; in one ear and out the other, as her family liked to say. She did not know what this panel or this conduit did. Already Reed was reaching for it, determination etched firmly into his backlit profile, and Hoshi hesitated, one hand half-raised to his shoulder, torn in two incompatible directions. She knew the risks of waking someone that sleepwalked, especially somebody so likely to lash out as their armory officer, but that panel could be anything—he might electrocute himself, blow up the ship, anything. She had to wake him, and take the chance.  
  
She closed her hand gingerly on his bare shoulder, laying her fingers over the white ridge of a scar she had not noticed before on the rare occasions she saw him out of uniform. He was hot to the touch, brightly feverish and his lips moved soundlessly over words even her superior ears could not make out.  
  
she ventured, softly.  
He shuddered under her hand, uttering one tuneful, startled sound in his throat, and his reaching hands fell to his sides, his head half-turning to her.   
  
she said again.  
  
He looked down at his almost indecent state, then around at the walls of the engineering gantry. What am I doing in engineering? What happened?  
  
You were sleepwalking, Lieutenant. Don't you remember?  
  
He shook his head, his ice blue eyes closely following her face as she spoke. He looked shell shocked, and almost childishly bewildered. he said.  
  
Hoshi realized suddenly that her hand still rested on his shoulder, and he followed her gaze as she glanced down to it. Neither said a word. She hastily took her hand away, embarrassed. Weren't you dreaming? she asked again. Don't you remember anything?  
  
He caught her hastily averted eyes, held them, and said, very softly:  
  
I don't remember a thing.


	7. JUST DO IT

JUST DO IT  
  
Hoshi slipped out of her robe and handed it, invitingly open, to Reed. There was the twitch in her mouth and the tickle in her throat of an impending giggle, which she abruptly choked off again, pressing her lips together to contain the sound.  
  
Reed eyed the robe suspiciously. That isn't exactly Starfleet-issue, is it? he asked, slowly. His eyebrows were knitting together over his nose, his forehead creasing into faint, firm lines, and his blue eyes glinted distantly. Hoshi had to admit that when he looked like that, sounded like that, each word enunciated to perfection and every facial muscle still as glass, he almost scared her.  
  
Almost.  
  
Reed disdainfully took the pink, fluffy item of clothing from Hoshi, eyeing it from top to bottom. Whatever else could be said for her unorthodox choice of robe, it had a pacifying effect on him. It's got a rabbit on the pocket, he pointed out dryly, not taking his eyes from the offending article. Hoshi felt the giggle pressing against her tonsils again, making her teeth itch, and transformed it into a cough.   
  
Somebody gave it to me as a going-away present. Look, if you'd rather walk through the ship in your underwear, then that's fine by me. She gestured for him to return the robe to her, offering open hands under his nose.  
  
Reed snatched it clear of her reaching fingers, hasty and pretending not to be, and Hoshi diplomatically coughed again. No, thank you, Ensign, he said crisply. Hoshi smiled, exasperated in a way only the slowest of her students had ever managed to elicit from her before. She bit her lip, wickedly enjoying his predicament, and kept her amusement to herself.  
  
Go on, Lieutenant. Give me a twirl.  
  
He put the robe on, his face grim. It was at least three sizes too small for him, and stretched and buckled across the broadest points of his arms, shoulders, and chest.  
  
I look like Priscilla, Queen of Space, he remarked.  
  
Hoshi tutted, close to hyperventilating in her attempts to force back the errant laughter. For all the lieutenant's cool, efficient exterior and practical manner, he was not one to be made fun of and often bridled at personal jokes to that end. Which was strange, considering how quick and dry his natural wit was towards others.  
  
Come on, princess, she laughed. Let's get back to our quarters.  
  
------------------------------  
  
Hoshi led the way. They stole from one shadow to another as they had come, the baby pink a luminous anticamouflage in the morning shift gloom, and finally took refuge behind a blinking console. Hoshi felt Reed bump lightly into her back as she pulled up short, and half-turned her face to find his uncomfortably close, his breath warm down her neck, prickling the fine hairs at the base of her skull. His chest kissed briefly against her back, his thighs touching hers.   
  
she hissed, startled.  
  
  
  
Why am I leading the way? You're the one that's supposed to be good at being covert. What she was really asking, beneath a colorful attack on his role as armory officer, was why he pressed so close. In any other circumstance, and in her experience, the lieutenant was a lead-the-way kind of guy.  
  
Reed bridled, perhaps aware of her inner question. I'm hiding behind you, he said, curtly. Lead on, Ensign.  
  
Hoshi rolled her eyes, and went on.  
  
They made it out into the brighter glare of the corridor without encountering a single crewmember, and Hoshi allowed herself the luxury of breathing more easily, content that there was nobody to overhear its depth. Behind her, close by her ear once more, Reed's constricted throat whistled tunefully. He had barely breathed since she woke him, his formerly desperate, deep gulp descending into stilled quiet; but his silence was far from tranquil. There was no ease in the taut muscle of his arm against her, in his unmoving chest. It would be easy to believe, if she wished to turn a blind eye, that it was the conspicuous robe and their equally conspicuous situation that had made him so edgy; but Hoshi didn't believe it. The distance in his disquieted gaze, staring over her head at nothing, was enough to tell her that. And in her time as a linguist, ever since she was small, she had learned the acquired art of listening, not only to people's words and tones, but to their breathing patterns as well. There were those languages where such things were as important as the sounds they accompanied. Reed's was . . . frantic. Strained.  
  
Are you all right? she asked, finally.  
  
Do you realize we're facing a formal reprimand if we get caught like this? Not to mention the rumors . . .  
  
We won't get caught. Lighten up.  
  
Reed did not argue the point further, but he looked none too happy about it. He couldn't argue it, of course; it had been only a thin excuse.  
  
They arrived back at his quarters with no further scare, and to Hoshi's sharp ears his high-strung breath began to soften and steady, just a little.  
  
He thankfully stripped off the offending pink robe at the door, and handed it absently back to Hoshi. The sweat she had noted earlier, with some concern, had either evaporated or else had been absorbed into the fabric, and his pale skin was dry over shoulders now more yielding and flexible, the granite angles smoothed out. The lines in his face were still faintly visible, but had receded significantly. He looked more relaxed, as if the dream she knew to be responsible for disturbing him had faded, but lingered still.  
  
Well . . . thank you, Ensign, he said, not directly looking at her. Hoshi smiled passively at the way he stumbled over the words, but he was looking away, and did not see it.  
  
That's all right, she replied. Couldn't let you fall into the warp reactor, could I?  
  
I think I might have been spotted before that happened, he tried to joke; but it was half-hearted, vacant.  
  
She waited for more, knowing how much more there was to come, and sensing in the heave of his shoulders and the way his lips pressed together thinly that he was battling with himself to keep it under lock and key. Surprisingly, considering the rivers of sweat that had been flooding down him before, there was no lingering scent of it in the corridor. There were never many smells to either repel or appreciate on a hermetically-sealed starship, a fact Hoshi often mourned—she missed the fresh scent of morning that used to wash through the air in Brazil, or the busy, intermingled odors of the cities back home.  
  
Well . . . goodnight, she said, when his reserve had apparently won. She took one last look back over her shoulder as she walked away, wanting to see him safe back inside before she left. The doors were just whispering closed behind him.  
  
Hoshi went on her way, the robe bundled carelessly in her arms and spilling from her grasp. A faint scent rose from the fabric, mildly fizzy, like sherbet and lemon in a tall glass full of ice on a summer's day.  
_   
I never knew Malcolm had such good taste in body spray, _she thought, and continued on to her quarters with a private smile winding through her sleepy face.  
  
------------------------------  
  
Reed lifted his face to the streams of warm water, allowed it to run down his brow and trace the line of his throat. A bizarre break from his routine, this—to take a shower in the ghost hours of Delta shift, when, in all honesty, his bunk should have been his first instinct. He had learnt, in less pleasant climes than these, to become a creature of habit and discipline, except when his work required adjustments to his schedule. Knowing he should be getting his beauty sleep when instead he was scrubbing the residue of a sweat-soaked dream from his itching skin left him disquieted.  
  
If he had been truthful in telling Hoshi that he remembered nothing of the dream itself, then he had kept back from her the more pertinent, and more vivid, memory; the sense of urgency, of helplessness to its call, that dominated it. The voices, murmuring in twisted, tangled streams, incoherent and inseparable, impelling him to obey them.  
  
He had tried to resist; his own voice had answered, however powerless. But those voices, that cacophony, were too strong.  
  
Reed shook himself from his melancholy and let the steam wrap and curl around him, closed his eyes and smoothed the water through his unruly hair, trying to mute the clamor in his brain. He had barely been able to focus that confusion to humor Hoshi, as she made her thoughtful offer of that ghastly robe. Reed smiled to himself, indulgently, disguising the shiver that shot down his spine. Who knew what he would have done if she hadn't waked him   
_   
(you know what to do)  
_   
and disturbed him in time.  
_   
(just do it)  
_   
A sound broke him from his thoughts, from the trails of steam cooling on him. Rat-tat-tat. He stopped, the steam dissipating, listening for it to come again. Rat-tat-tat. A tap. A tap on the glass.  
  
And it _was_ little more than a tap—the kind of staccato made by stilettos on a road, as if somebody was knocking with the end of a ballpoint against the frosted Perspex in the shower door. Reed shut off the water, and stood dripping in the shower cubicle, listening for it to come again, half-decided to step out and go a little closer. _All the better to hear you with, my dear. _He listened, and sure enough, it came again. Rat-tat-tat. Sharp little dots, rapping on glass. There was a patience to that tapping he instinctively didn't like. He ignored the strike of cold as the steam's heat faded, ignored the tickling sensation as the water streaked down his back and legs and stomach, and blinked it out of his eyes. Still he listened, not sure what it was he wanted to hear; the sound, or silence. What he would be most _comforted _to hear. What he would be afraid to hear. So he stayed where he was, boxed in by glass so opaque with condensation that he could see nothing beyond it. All he saw were the stripes made by the creeping trickle of water sliding down the glass, cutting through the steam till they looked like bars in a prison window. Glimpses of the room beyond flashed in those slim streaks . . . glimpses of shadows, watching him. Reed reached out his hand, meaning to dry the condensation away . . . and then stopped. He hesitated for a long time—long enough for the water to cool on his body and pull his flesh into goose bumps, long enough for his hair to dry against his temples and that maddening, marrow-deep itch to begin again—and then, finally, he reached for the glass once more.  
  
His outstretched fingers, now shivering with cold, did not reach the pane inches from his nose. They did not need to. As he reached, the steam began to melt.  
  
There, in the condensation misting the shower door, spelled out like a child will spell out their name with their finger, were three, short words:  
  
JUST DO IT.  
  
------------------------------  
  
The rapping on Hoshi's door was frantic, a tattoo branding itself into the metal like a watermark. She had finally, blessedly, begun to drift off to sleep after some hour or more spent twisting in her bed, worrying that the lieutenant would sleepwalk himself out of an air lock in the night. She tried to ignore the twinge that warned her she should tell the captain, as Reed may be a danger to himself if this continued; but it was his own private matter, after all, and the decision to tell anyone of it should be his.   
  
The knocking stirred her abruptly from her coasting mid-consciousness; a state as near sleep as she could expect tonight, and oddly, brought on in the most part by the scent now clinging forcefully to every fiber of her robe, the slumberous, dense fumes making her listless and heavy-lidded. That knock, never breaking and never letting up, seemed determined to elicit an answer, and also seemed unwilling to go away and let her nap.  
  
she yawned, throwing back the quilt reluctantly. I'm coming.  
  
She opened the door to find two agitated, blazing eyes staring full into hers, wide, bright, and feverish. The sweat had broken again on his forehead and cheeks, trailing slowly down his face and damping the finer hair at his temples. He was leaning heavily on her door frame as if his own legs would not support him, and one hand scratched persistently at the back of the other, rubbing the skin raw.  
  
she gasped, stepping back in surprise.  
  
he panted, can you hear that? Tell me you can hear that!  
  
Hear what? Malcolm, you're scaring me.  
  
She ushered him inside, one hand flinchingly nudging him by the arm, and closed the door behind him. She need hardly to have bothered; he dived inside almost before the invitation came, eager to be away from prying eyes, only his deeply ingrained sense of propriety preventing him.  
  
What is this all about? What can you hear? she tried again.   
  
The tapping. The tapping, don't you hear it? He had turned on her, almost fiercely, and she could safely say, now, that he _was _frightening her. He looked so . . . unhinged.  
  
she said, very softly, dropping her voice low in the quiet of his hurried breathing. Malcolm . . . there's no tapping. She came a step closer, just one, extending a hand cautiously to him. He remained rooted, unmoving, wild eyes taking in her advance uncomprehendingly. The uniform he had this time managed to drag on, albeit crumpled, was darkening with sweat in blooming patches. It wasn't even hot in here, yet he must be burning up. What else can you hear? she purred.   
  
He tilted his head to one side as if shaking water from his ears; then both hands shot up to clutch at his temples, his face pulling into a grimace she barely caught before his palms concealed it. he moaned, sinking down in the chair beside her desk. Voices. Tapping. The engines, they're so loud . . . It was almost a whimper, fading back into his throat as if afraid of the air around him. Hoshi barely caught the last:  
  
They're telling me what to do. All the time. I'm sick of people telling me what to do.   
  
Very slowly, anxious not to startle him, Hoshi sank to her knees on the floor beside him, and rested her hand carefully on his arm. He stirred, reacting to her presence, one hand sliding a little away from his face to look at her. It was a dream, Lieutenant, she said, very gently now, not at all sure it had been. Just a dream.  
  
He nodded slowly, and she sank back on her heels, glad to see that for now he believed her. The captain had called the rest of his senior officers to his ready room, one at a time to avoid alerting Reed to it, and warned them that during the journey to Titrinus he may experience side effects from the nanobots, and that they must be on their guard for any signs. Especially, Captain Archer had said, of hallucinations.  
  
If these weren't hallucinations, she didn't know what were.  
  
he said, raising his head and removing his hands to fix her with eyes no longer wild, but bleary and bloodshot with sleeplessness, fever, and fear. That frightened her more than anything yet; he was _never_ afraid. At least, he never looked it, on all their dangerous missions always keeping that cool, professional exterior, his temper and dry wit the only signs of emotion. She had never seen Malcolm Reed like this before.  
  
She doubted he had ever _been _like this before.  
  
she replied.  
  
I have to know what these things are inside me, he whispered, strengthlessly. I can't sleep, I can't eat, there's voices in my head that won't go away . . . all night, there've been noises. You've just proved it. Don't you hear that? He smiled sorrowfully, knowing she would say no. She shook her head, minutely, seeing the smile twist into his familiar smirk, a darting glimpse of the old Malcolm; then it was gone.  
  
Exactly. I don't know what's happening to me, but it's been happening since I got these . . . these nanobots. I have to decrypt them. Know what they are.  
  
Shouldn't we tell the captain? We were trusted by the Vulcan High Command with this information, surely we can't just . . .  
  
He raised his eyebrows, ironically reminding her, for a moment, of T'Pol. Can't we? Help me, Hoshi. You're the only one that can decrypt these things. If you can't . . .  
  
Hoshi opened her mouth—speechlessly, because nothing would come out. Clearing her throat, she squeaked:  
  
But . . . we don't know how to get them out of your bloodstream. We don't know anything about them.  
  
I do, he said.  



	8. CAT'S EYES

Ooh, thanks for all the lovely reviews again! And Ally, yup, this was around this time last year, and like an idiot I withdrew it, edited it up and sent it as a proposal to Pocket Books. They didn't even reply to send a rejection slip, so needless to say I've washed my hands of them and thought I'd be much happier ( and it would be much nicer) to put it all back on the Internet for anybody to read for free. I'm glad you're all enjoying it! It's sort of restored my faith a bit.  
  
CAT'S EYES  
  
Reed reached up, his eyes uncomfortably never straying from hers, and plucked a single hair from his tousled head. He held it out to her, clasped between his finger and thumb, light catching sharply along its fine edge.   
  
In here, he said, with a bitter, razor blade smirk, there are at least one hundred nanobots. We only need one.  
  
Hoshi stared silently at the thin dark hair twisting lazily in the dim light. In length it was little more than her smallest finger, yet it held one hundred submolecular machines, machines invisible to the naked eye but capable of affecting his hearing, his sleep, his appetite . . . cause a deliberate sleepwalk to lead him to engineering on an errand neither of them could guess, or wanted to.  
  
How do you know all this? she asked, eventually, apprehensive but helplessly awed.   
  
They told me, he responded. His stinging excitability, so like him and so unlike, was almost tangible to touch.  
  
Hoshi ran a nervous tongue over her lips and shifted her weight a little onto one thigh, the other deadened from kneeling on the hard floor. She wanted to move away, completely away, afraid his agitation would somehow burn her; but for more reasons than she could consciously give attention to, she was unable to move a muscle.  
  
Aren't you afraid to sit so near? he asked, quietly. His gaze never moved from her, and Hoshi shifted again uncomfortably, certain this wasn't normal. Honest a question as it may have been, there were several reasons, to her mind, that might have driven him to ask it, and many different reasons he might have hoped to startle from her. This was Malcolm Reed, and it was not. She saw him watching her through a stranger's eyes.   
  
Why would I be afraid? I think I know you well enough to trust you, Malcolm. We're hardly strangers, she said at last.  
  
He was motionless, a breathing waxwork whose forced inhale and exhale was the only sign of life. Only his eyes, like dry ice, betrayed that. He was an inverted cyclone—still on the outside, furious within. That isn't an answer, he said.  
  
Hoshi offered a smile, merely a trembling flutter devoid of all pretense at mirth, but attempting, at least, to infuse some warmth into the still air. The only sound was the purr of the engines rocketing through the deck beneath her. Would you be afraid to, if you were me? she tried, at a loss for anything with which to reply.  
  
That's hardly relevant. We're different, Hoshi. He sighed, a pull that seemed to draw breath from the very soles of his feet, and expel it to the air. More than you realize.  
_   
Which I can take any way I want, _Hoshi thought, taking encouragement from the revelation. _He's probably just as uncertain of all this as I am. More. He'd never admit he's afraid. That's not his way.   
_   
_But I'm nobody's fool. _  
  
Can you hear them now?  
  
He shook his head, wearily. No. All I hear is you and the engines.  
  
What were they saying to you . . . before?  
  
Reed huffed low in his throat, and settled back straight and rigid in the chair, his hands falling limply from his face. You're humoring me, aren't you? You don't believe any of this.  
  
I believe that something's wrong and you need my help. Isn't that enough?  
  
She realized the moment the words left her mouth that they were a mistake; implying that he was in need of her help was tantamount to implying that he had lost control. But it was done, now; and, perhaps more importantly, it was also true.  
  
What I need, Ensign, is your expertise, he snapped. I could have gone straight to the captain with this. Probably, I should have. But this is an important mission, Hoshi—the Vulcans have never truly believed we belonged out here, in space, and if we complete this favor for them then we'll have proved differently. But I think I'm beginning to understand the captain after all this time. At the first sign of a hiccup, he'll pull the plug, and have these things removed. I don't want to be responsible for that.  
  
As he spoke, gazing at her and through her, a little of his old, placid boyishness returned; he had never been altogether as calm as he made out, she knew that, but this change she saw was a return of his logic, his wit, and his passion for the job he had been specially selected to do. He was Malcolm Reed again. She believed him when he said he heard things; about that, she had been telling the truth. She believed that he wanted to know the cause, that his reasons for keeping this to himself were honest, if in contrast to her own first instincts to tell somebody about it. But he _had _told somebody about it, she reflected—he had told _her_.   
  
The captain had warned her, and all his senior crew, about this; that Reed may experience hallucinations from the nanobots. And he had also ordered, actually and formally _ordered_, that Reed not be told any of this, not wanting to risk alarming him unnecessarily. Or, perhaps, causing any kind of psychosomatic reaction. Hoshi suspected that the captain had never thought it would become an issue, and if he knew the situation his answer would be much the same as hers—to tell him, now, before these visions and voices grew any worse, and stole any more of his peace and theirs.  
  
Because now it _was _an issue. He deserved to know; only one look of those wild, forcibly tempered eyes convinced her of that. But she was duty-bound to keep it from him. Duty had never stuck so sourly in her craw as this did, and she could not help but speculate, once more, that in every way but the professional she was not cut out for space exploration.  
  
Maybe you should tell me what you've been hearing, she stammered, at last. We might be missing something.  
  
Malcolm sat back, and nodded, slowly. If I knew, I'd tell you. But most of it seems to have happened in my sleep, and I only barely remember it when I wake up. The rest of the time . . . well, I've been hearing voices, but I can't make out a word they say. They're whispered, muddled . . . a bit like receiving too many messages at once over the com.  
  
Hoshi nodded back, understanding the illustration, if not fully believing the reply it accompanied. She scanned his face quickly, hoping to see evidence of his telling her the whole truth or not—but if any of the humans onboard had made a study of facial neutrality, it was him, and there was nothing to tell her more than his spoken answers did. And you think these nanobots are responsible?  
  
Either that or I'm losing my mind. I'd prefer to think it was the first option. Besides . . . it only started happening at the institute. That's too much of a coincidence for me.  
  
And you want me to decrypt these . . . nanobots?  
  
I want to see if we need alert the captain or not. I want to know how important this data is and whether it's worth my sanity. There was the subtle sarcasm she had grown used to hearing, blended seamlessly back into his professional exterior. Only the minute quiver running through his body betrayed any different.  
  
How do we get the nanobots out, or read what's there? I can decrypt the information once it's out and in my translator, but before that . . . I mean, I can't read your hair.  
  
Leave that to me, he said.  
  
------------------------------  
  
Hoshi dressed quickly, and the two of them ventured out into the low-lit morning shift hours for the second time that night. Hoshi's heart clamped to a stony knot as they set foot outside her door, waiting to see if he would naturally shoulder the lead before she could allow it to beat again. She was anxious for any sign of his old self returning, gathering up mentally the indications she was given; his quiet sensibility, check; his distant and dutiful exterior, check; and now his lead-the-way mentality, check. Now all she needed was for him to make a joke so subtle she almost missed it, and she could breathe easily again.  
  
She followed where he led, trusting to his motives this time, and entirely uncertain where it was they were headed; he proceeded as if he knew, and all she could do was trust that he was right.   
  
She seemed to be taking so much on faith tonight. And she could not help but wonder, still, if she was doing the right thing. He had sworn they would tell the captain once they knew what they were dealing with—but that, she feared, was one thing she couldn't quite believe.   
  
He stopped, at last, outside sickbay. Its doors were closed, and all in the corridor where they stood was dim and sleeping. Phlox would no doubt be in his quarters, sickbay empty and the doors sealed.   
  
How do you propose we get in? she asked, already suspecting he knew the answer.  
  
He turned those pale eyes on her, brilliant in the downtime gloom, and smiled, lazily. So much of his expression, she was beginning to realize, occurred in his eyes. So subtle she almost missed it.   
_   
Welcome back, Malcolm, _she thought.  
  
I'm chief of security, remember? My clearance level's more than high enough to open this door.  
  
And sure enough, it was.  
  
Reed ordered her to keep watch and alert him if anyone came by, and then left her at the doorway, ducking into the dark confines of sickbay with no further word. She waited for the lights to come on, but time passed, and the interior remained in darkness. But there were the faint sounds of equipment being moved and used, a clink or a hum here and there, too faint to identify but loud enough to note, and no evidence of either accidents or stumbling in the black inside.  
  
Can you see all right in there? she hissed, eventually.  
  
Yes, why? He sounded surprised at the question.   
  
Hoshi did not follow up on it. It seemed pointless, even cruel, to tell him that only a cat could have possibly seen his way in such total absence of adequate light.  
  
He emerged only a few minutes later, a padd in his hand, and a triumphant smirk on his face.  
  
Got it, he said.  
  
------------------------------  
  
They decided, in the end, to return to Hoshi's quarters while she worked. She asserted that she had the necessary equipment already set up there and that she worked best in her own environment, and he accepted her suggestion with his usual, stoic wryness; but she was not fool enough, green as she may be, to be completely blind to what lie beneath it this time. The dutiful propriety was there, but the impetuous spark and boyish curiosity had vanished again as elusively as they had surfaced. He did not want to go back to his quarters while there remained any chance of those bizarre occurrences happening again, and Hoshi had provided him with the perfect excuse.  
  
He could do nothing while she worked; this was her sphere, and his skills did not extend to decrypting experimental nanobots. Hoshi doubted hers did either, but she was only too well aware that if she didn't try, no one would. It would have cost him to come to her like this, and most of all to reveal weakness of any kind. If she refused him or failed him, then she knew, without a doubt, that he would not go to a second for aid.  
  
She wondered, almost arbitrarily, if it had merely been the chance of her witnessing his sleepwalk that made him come to her, or whether it was her ability as a linguist and communicator, or that he trusted her as a friend; but whichever it was, she doubted, very much, that she would be up to the challenge.  
  
She was very careful, in the end, not to tell him that.  
  
Why don't you get some sleep? she prompted, making careful eye contact with him. You look like a raccoon.  
  
I'll be all right. I've gone longer than this without sleep before.  
  
I just thought . . . well, the voices seem to come when you're asleep, don't they? I know it's pretty scary, but . . . we might learn something.  
  
I don't know that I can sleep on demand, Ensign, he teased, obliquely.  
  
  
  
He nodded, and sat on the edge of her bed to pull off his boots. Do you think you'll be able to break the encryption, Hoshi? he asked. That earlier look of frozen fear had collapsed into a harrowed, hollow tranquility, his haunted eyes like black holes sucking the life and peace from the room.  
  
She opened her mouth to assure him, bluntly, that she would come through for him, but that look, so pained, so empty, and somehow piercing flesh from bone, had taken the wind from her sails.  
  
Nobody would try harder, she said, finally. Unwilling, in the end, to promise what she was not at all sure she could deliver.  
  
I understand.  
  
Hoshi tilted her head to one side, not breaking the stare but shifting its focus, and took in the overall slump of his shoulders. Still hearing things?  
  
Not at the moment. Maybe I _should _take the hint and get some sleep. Will you be all right?  
  
I don't think you could do anything, she said, frankly. I can't aim straight at a live target and you can't read encrypted data. That's why the captain needs both of us on this ship.  
  
He smiled at that, releasing a brief infusion of warmth into his chilling expression that was all too swiftly cut off. Thanks, Hoshi. She knew he did not mean her willingness to do this for him, nor her agreement to keep it between them, but her willingness to trust him. You'll wake me if you find anything?  
  
Promise. And if you feel like sleepwalking again, my robe's on the chair over there.  
  
Reed uttered a short, sharp bark of laughter at that, climbed into Hoshi's crumpled bunk, and fell asleep almost as his head touched the pillow.  
  
------------------------------  
  
The hush had two profound effects on her progress, the one distinctly helpful, the other unsettling. She had always worked well in peace and quiet, able to hear each nuance of a recorded dialect and concentrate on every variant of the written. But this quiet, although near unbroken, was not completely devoid of sound. She could hear Reed breathing, not the soft, measured ease of a man asleep and dreamless, but the tortured rasp of one trapped in a nightmare. For the second time that night, his lips moved rapidly, muttering broken syllables she could make nothing of, and he twisted restlessly in her bed, tugging her quilt into a sweaty tangle.  
  
She waited as long as her nerves could stand, hoping the symptoms would abate on their own and let him rest. An hour passed, and there was no change; so, flinching and uncertain, she left her desk and approached her bed, one hand reaching hesitantly to wake him.  
  
She never completed the gesture. Whatever was troubling him behind the pained creases in his forehead and the biting clench of his fists and jaw, he needed to see it through.  
  
They needed to know, in the end, what they were dealing with.   
  
So she let him sleep. And let him dream.  



	9. TATTOO

TATTOO  
  
He knew this place. It was a discordant memory, a note out of place in the melody, but it was real enough; elusive, refusing to fully rise to the surface, but real. Like the night of the storm, like the night in the park back home when the apple trees were brimming with juice and ready for harvest, it was a place pulled kicking and screaming from the depths of his memory . . . and made flesh in his dream. And like that previous time, he was alone, and adopting the part of his child self, speaking the lines and making the moves he had made back then, eyes and ears open and awaiting that ambiguous presence he knew would come when night fell.  
  
Reed searched the sky above him, observing the day's end, watching the evening trailing away in the west to night, indigo bleeding out into the peach and violet like ink spilt on the sky. Rain threatened in the cold, acidic air. The Dark Man always came, in all his available memories, at night, earning the name Reed had unwittingly given him; while these final threads of light remained, he could rest easy, and observe.   
_   
A good security officer always looks about him before he does anything else. He always knows the terrain, _he reminded himself, holding onto the assertion of self the thought gave him like a drowning man holding a life preserver. That he used a naval illustration, ironically, did not escape him. _  
_   
The wind whispered in the trees as he strolled past them, and in the distance, he heard the faint, rhythmic squeak of a rusty swing swaying in the breeze. Leaves rattled along the ground, litter fluttering out of a nearby recycling bin and tumbling away down the concrete path. Malcolm's eyes hawkishly devoured the lay of the land about him, the empty park and the light draining from this starkly tangible dreamworld, the flat silver quality of the colorless grass and trees and path, and the striking flares of vibrant color in the western horizon. Dark stealing the day away. Black taking the light. It was refreshing, after so many months on a starship where artificial daylight ruled his waking hours and artificial moonlight his night, to be suddenly brought into the glowing halo of an earth sunset, even if it was only a dream.   
  
The memory he had been transported to was dim, but growing brighter with each moment as the air grew darker. He _had _come to this part of the park alone, once; he remembered it now the way a line of a song will bring back the events of a day long forgotten. He remembered walking here as a small boy, knowing he shouldn't be out alone, knowing he should be at home studying. He remembered things, quite suddenly, that he never had before.   
  
He had just wanted to see the pond. That was all.  
  
He had seen it from a distance, only a few days before the incident in question, on his way home through the park with Madeline and his mum. It had lie still and silent beyond the stretch of grass they walked along, a brooding blue-black beyond his mother's obscuring form, beckoning his curiosity sweetly. His primary interest may have been with the stars, but he was a Reed—a love of water would always be in his blood, coursing through his veins.  
  
Reed stood now listening to the trees, remembering the last time the park had been so eerily silent as this. The _only _time it had been so eerily silent as this. Away to his right, the dark eye of the pond called him, its voice as cold and black as the water itself, its whisper soothing in the calm. He knew it was foolish, against every instinct Starfleet had ever bred into him, but he wanted to go to it. Maybe he was _supposed _to go to it . . . the way he had unquestioningly gone to it back then.  
  
His feet moved almost without his consent, carrying him down the darkening path to the even darker water. Its edge looked unsafe, sunbaked mud crumbling into the deep, and in his waking day his innate caution would have held him back from it; but here, he could feel his resolve melting like ice cream on a hot day, and the trusting, blind instinct of the boy he had been burrowed quietly up from its grave. He knelt by its edge, knelt as he had once before, and peered into the ebony disc, looking for the milky-faint ghost of himself in the rippling water. He expected to look older, older than he had ever felt possible, but it was the unworn face of a child that looked back.  
_   
But I am older, _he thought, his palm fluttering across the surface in a butterfly kiss . . . testing the coldness after the burning fever of his last disastrous attempts at sleep. A single raindrop struck his outstretched hand, stunning him from the spell . . . but not breaking it. He was afraid he had regressed too far for that. A little bit of him wished that Hoshi could have shared this dream with him, made sense of a situation he was still too close to; her presence had been pacifying, out there in the real world. But even T'Pol, with her often secret abilities, had apparently been unable to do that.  
  
Rain struck tiny chips from the stillness, breaking the deep, ringing hollowly into the earth around him. Malcolm did not even notice. His reflection was there, still unbroken, its image protected from the shattering rain by the line of his body over it, his back absorbing the raindrops as they fell. He was going to get soaked—if one could get soaked in a dream—but he no longer cared. Hoshi was right; they needed to know.  
  
It was then that the image changed.  
  
It was his face, all right; it was him, his clear blue eyes, his thick brown hair, his high, strong cheekbones; it was him, but it was not him. A shadow lingered beneath the surface, a face within a face, a face with nothing in its features but emptiness. Reed watched, captivated—only vaguely aware, somewhere in the rafters of his mind, that he ought to be afraid.   
  
And then, it spoke.   
  
Hello again, the image whispered.  
  
His heart in his mouth, Reed made himself look again; the image was there, a ghostly imprint behind his own, but when he tried to focus through his own face to it, it blurred maddeningly. When his eyes relaxed again, it swam back like a broken cloud reforming in the sky.  
  
_A magic eye picture, _he thought, absently. _I was always terrible at those. Too much the stickler for detail._  
  
I agree, the image said. The Dark Man, for there was no doubt in Reed's mind that it was he, said.  
  
Reed started, rearing back a little in surprise and instinctive revulsion.  
  
You . . . you can read my mind? he demanded.  
  
This _is _your mind, the voice replied. But you're not in control of it. Not when you're asleep.  
  
These days I'm starting to wonder if I'm in control of it when I'm awake, Reed muttered. He tried, unsuccessfully, not to dwell on the next logical question; if he was not in control of his own mind in his dreams, who was? Who are you? he asked the flickering phantom.  
  
I said I would tell you when you needed to know. The voice lilted, simmered, a breath on the wind, a rattle in the dark.  
  
Then tell me what I _do _need to know, Reed pressed, his voice dropping to a warning purr between gritted teeth. His authoritative voice, the one he pulled on Hoshi when she allowed her nerves to cloud her brilliant mind, the one he used to unnerve subordinates that wandered too far out of line. Then he paused, repeating the sentence to himself. Wait a minute; how is it I can talk to you? Why aren't I just repeating what I said, like last time?  
  
I merely wanted to remind you last time. I wanted you to remember me. Now I want to talk to you. The shade shimmered with a brief semblance of light, striking sparks from the treacle-black water. Do you remember the last time we met at this pool?  
  
Reed hesitated. He was never one to spill his thoughts at random, without the conscious decision to do so—but if this was his mind, if both of them _existed _in his mind, then what he did or didn't say made no difference. The Dark Man would know, whatever he did. I do now.  
  
What happened? Tell me.  
  
A sudden, bursting flash of memory rushed through Reed like a gale, assaulting him with sensations consciously lost; the awful cold wetness all around him, his clothes weighing him down, the flat, silty metal taste in his mouth like the air before a storm, struggling . . . silence.  
  
I fell in, he murmured, to himself. His voice was a lifeless husk, collapsing to nothing on the fizzing air. He barely felt the rain his dream had brought him, barely smelled the bubbling citrus scent rising from the mud beneath his hands.   
  
  
  
You saved me.  
  
The image nodded, but only once, and only the barest dip. Look at your hand.  
  
Reed glanced down at the bluish veins and pale skin he had scratched at so viciously only earlier tonight, where that bone-deep itch had begun, spread, and concentrated. There, where raw skin should be, a suggestion of a tattoo glimmered in the gloom. A black arrow, pointing upwards into the shadows of his sleeve.  
  
Do you remember anything else?  
  
Reed gulped, phantoms of an old wound and an old pain sizzling in the muscles of his left shoulder. He tensed against it, sinew hardening to stone in the space between collar and bicep. I hit a rock. Tore open my shoulder. You told me . . .  
  
. . . that when the wound healed, it would be time for you to know.  
  
But I never did know. It closed about a week later and you never told me a thing. I can't even remember you ever coming back.  
  
You will. Look again.  
  
Reed humored him, knowing that his dream-uniform would obscure his view . . . and then he stopped, his smugness evaporating. His uniform had gone; he was wearing the clothes he had worn the day he fell into the pond, replicas his adult size and shape, but identical in every other respect. Somehow, he hadn't expected that.  
  
His fingers trembled as he reached up to his throat and unbuttoned the shirt, the cotton peeling wetly from his rain-soaked arm with a faint sucking sound. There, in stark white stitches like rows of crocodile teeth, was the scar he had carried all those years. Faint to an untrained eye, but it was all too bold to his.  
  
When it's healed . . . then I'll tell you what you want to know, the Dark Man breathed. But until then, I have a task for you to do.  
  
Reed froze at the shards of ice spiking the voice, the lulling calm veiling it only serving to intensify its bite. What if I refuse? he asked.  
  
For an instant, just an instant and no more, the form that had fused into the shade beneath his own child's reflection sharpened, clarified to a brilliant, crystal-clear image of a face too fleeting to grasp, quicksilver in the depths. Then it was gone, melted back into the ripple and quiver of the rain-tapped surface.   
  
It hit him, then; so forcefully, like a rock to the head, that he collapsed back on his heels in alarm. That tapping staccato on his shower door . . . the raindrops striking the water. They were the same.   
  
Alone in his quarters, he had been hearing the rain through a barrier of three decades.  
  
I said what if I refuse? he demanded, sickly.  
  
You can't refuse. Now . . . come closer. And I'll tell you what to do.  
  
----------------------------------  
  
It was the rhythm that woke her, or perhaps, more accurately, its grating absence. In these past months Hoshi had not merely acclimatized to those sounds, nor stopped at deconstructing their accidental language; she had become one with it, allowing her sleep to regulate to _Enterprise's _pulse, realizing that to embrace it and ride those waves was the only way to overcome her initial apprehension of them. It was like trying to swim in a surging tide—it was futile to keep your own time. You just had to ride the waves, lean into the gravity of the riptide that carried you.  
  
Those waves were breaking, now, the engine's logical song altering in pitch, in modulation . . . in character. The _Enterprise, _she realized, was slowing. And _that _was what had waked her.  
  
Hoshi stretched experimentally where she lie, slumped, her cheek rested on a cold, smooth surface, her fingers splayed and her hand palm-down beside her face. Her hair had shaken loose and cascaded over her face in a sleek black waterfall, the dark net catching the light before it reached her eyes.  
  
She explored the surface hesitantly, suspicion dawning but denied until it became irrefutable. Cold. Smooth.  
  
Slumped.   
  
She had fallen asleep at her desk, her so far unsuccessful work smothered beneath her weary body. Hoshi sat up, head cradled woozily in her hands. There was an invasive hum to the air which was new, and which clanked at intervals with a crunching, unhealthy snap.   
_   
Enterprise is calling for help,_ she thought, groggily. _That's what that sound is. It shouldn't be happening and it sounds wrong because it _is _wrong. I should call Commander Tucker and tell him . . . _  
  
As Hoshi straightened her complaining spine, a siren shrilled through the ship, obliterating that whine and clunk she had heard and interpreted. A tactical alert siren.  
  
It was then, in almost perfect synchronization with _Enterprise's _scream, that the ship came to a dead halt.  
  
she ventured, sure that the siren would have waked him from even the deepest dream. She wanted the confirmation, the security if the pun could be excused, of hearing everything confirmed by a superior officer. Lieutenant, did you feel that?  
  
There was no answer. Hoshi turned to her bed, already knowing, as she did so, what she would see.  
  
He was gone.  



	10. WHAT PRICE, FRIENDSHIP?

Just a note about this chapter title; I first called this chapter What Price, Friendship?' last year, long before Dave Stern's paperback What Price, Honor?' was even rumoured. It's a coincidence!  
  
WHAT PRICE, FRIENDSHIP?  
  
The ship was in chaos. Only _Enterprise's_ night crew were yet able to respond to the klaxon-wail shrieking over her head like an animal in its death throes, but all about her as she ran crewmen and women were stirring, coming yawning to their doors in varying states of undress to confirm that this was a false alarm.   
  
But Hoshi knew that this _was_ no false alarm. That crumpled, empty bed had told her that. The boots beside it, one standing to attention while the other listed drunkenly on its side, had told her that. He was gone, unattended and asleep, and it was her fault. She had dozed at her post, the so-far-failed decrypting task assigned to her forgotten in her need for sleep. As Hoshi's burning legs raced her onward towards engineering the alert siren seemed to scream her failure to the entire ship.  
  
She knew it had been foolish of her, agreeing to his request for secrecy. He hadn't ordered her as he might have done, and the decision to heed his hazy plan or take it upon herself to tell the captain had been hers—she had opted to honor his request, seeing the urgency behind it. She had allowed her sentimentality to get the better of her, and this was the result.   
  
She had known since the _Enterprise_ launched that one day, she would mess up. At first she hadn't even been able to shoot a phase pistol straight. But she had always imagined that her mistake would be in mistranslating some new, exotic language—not in guarding a man whose job it was to protect the _Enterprise_ from harming the ship himself.   
  
People had begun to gather in the corridors like bewildered sheep. Hoshi, although technically the ranking officer present, did not have time to play shepherd. She ran.  
  
The corridor to engineering was shrouded in smoke as she dived inside, the air quivering with chemical pollutants like the wake of a Bunsen flame. Smells thick as tar and tinged with charcoal fumes filled her nose and burrowed into her head, driving needles into her brain that made her tired eyes water. She blundered forward in the noxious fumes, seeing the black shapes of crewmen dashing past her in their haste to repair the damage. From the sounds, Hoshi concluded that the casualty was the warp reactor itself.  
  
  
  
She spun to the voice, recognizing Commander Tucker's expressive lilt even over the nerve-frying monotone of the tactical alert. He was barreling down the corridor towards her at a breakneck speed.  
  
It's Lieutenant Reed! she yelled back. The relief, the release of responsibility from her shoulders at Trip's arrival, overrode any last, dying remnants of sentimentality she felt towards the need for secrecy, and the confession flooded from her mouth like the smoke flooding from engineering.  
  
Trip bellowed, still meters from her even at his fastest sprint. Hoshi, the doors are closing!  
  
Hoshi swiveled to the doors beside her, her brain freezing at the sight of them soundlessly gliding closed, cutting off that smoke and that acrid smell. Trip was too far away, he would never make it through . . . but she could. She had only an instant to decide. She took a deep breath, braced herself, and leapt through the narrowing gap.  
  
  
  
She turned back just in time to see Trip toss something through the final few inches of space. She caught it, startled, and studied the thing in her hands stupidly.  
  
It was a phase pistol.  
  
The doors clanged shut behind her.  
  
---------------------------------  
  
Hoshi squinted through the smoke, her lungs dragging in the foul cocktail of fumes and that popping sherbet undertaste that had been present in her quarters and soldered into her robe—that scent that had been coming so powerfully from Lieutenant Reed. So he _was_ here somewhere, beneath the fog of smoke and fizzing chemicals. And whatever was happening to him was getting stronger.  
  
The temperature had risen in the heart of engineering, and her tired lungs found little oxygen in the contaminated air. Her head swam woozily and the siren's song of the alert sang like circling vultures in the far recesses of her mind, making her sensitive ears tingle.  
  
She stumbled forward, faint and dizzy, her throat parched from the chemicals into a scratched, sandpaper knot. She choked it back, feeling with her hands for support to either side.  
  
_Keep your head, Hoshi,_ she commanded herself, firmly. _You can do this. You _have_ to do this.  
_   
she called, her tongue a swollen, nerveless stone in her mouth. She grasped the phase pistol in both sweaty, death grip hands, every admonition he had ever given her to relax spinning through her dazed head like a white-knuckle ride.  
  
_(try and keep your shoulders relaxed)_  
  
Hoshi bit her lip and wriggled her shoulders a little, loosening the knotted muscles beneath her sweat-drenched uniform. The heat was slowly rising.  
  
_(it's hard to aim accurately when you're tense)  
_   
She gulped, tasting bitter metal and crackling citrus in her mouth, and slowly, painfully, pried the fingers of her left hand from the raised phase pistol, forcing herself to breathe deeply although the fumes hurt her chest and throat. She was beginning to feel giddy.  
  
Above her, the ship's internal com system crackled. The sound reminded her, for no reason at all, of steak on a barbecue. came Captain Archer's voice. Hoshi, are you all right?  
  
I'm fine, Captain, she replied, not at all sure she was.  
  
Can you see Lieutenant Reed anywhere?  
  
No. Is there anyone else in engineering? Did you check for biosigns? She paled at the thought, not wanting to think what Malcolm may be capable of in his current state.   
  
It's just you and Malcolm, Hoshi. Archer's voice was apologetic, even worried. But she did not need him to say that it was up to her—she had known that from the moment Reed knocked so savagely at her door earlier tonight.   
  
She narrowed her eyes, peering and straining through the dishwater-gloom, searching for a shape in the cloud.  
  
I don't see . . . no . . . wait. Captain, I think I see him.  
  
Go easy, Hoshi. He's obviously not feeling quite himself.  
  
Again, there was that near personal subtext. Perhaps others of this crew would miss the hidden warnings, not knowing the captain well enough to understand the reference—but Hoshi knew. Archer didn't blame the lieutenant for this; the sympathy for and empathy with his crew that made Archer the trustworthy captain he was shone through, reassuring Hoshi that it would be all right. But the captain also suspected, as strongly as she herself did, that the nanobots were at fault—and that the situation was highly volatile.  
  
Hoshi could see Reed clearly, now; he was standing beside a panel, only meters from the warp reactor. Its softly pulsing light radiated outward through the drifting smoke, diffusing into prisms as it touched upon the chemicals in the air. Its comforting hum was muted, still gentle, still steady—but clearly distressed. The complex chain reaction she was so used to hearing did not come.  
  
Lieutenant? Sir? she tried again. Softly.  
  
He stirred, suddenly, twisting his head to follow the new sound. His eyes snapped open, waking abruptly from whatever dream had followed the other—the one she had witnessed, earlier in her quarters. The one she had chosen, in the end, to allow him to suffer for the sake of research.  
  
Foolish. How could she have been so foolish?  
  
_You finally messed up, Hoshi,_ she berated herself. _And when you mess up, you really mess up.  
_   
  
  
It was a mere whisper over the blaring sirens, but in truth, it must have had some strength in it, to be heard at all. She looked up, the phase pistol slipping a little in her reluctant hand, and found Reed's all too comprehending eyes fixed immovably on her. He was startled, uncertain of having wakened from one nightmare to another, but still there was a bitter, resigned understanding to his voice she could not ignore.   
  
Get away from me, he said. Not an order, spoken angrily in his defense, but a request, spoken reasonably for hers.  
  
Archer's voice interrupted over the com, strong still over the sirens. Malcolm, what are you doing? he demanded.  
  
It's not me, Captain, Reed replied, with horrible calm. It's him.  
  
_Him?_ Hoshi wondered, quickly. _Who's him'? Aren't the nanobots doing this?_   
  
Archer's voice echoed. What are you talking about? Step away from Hoshi and from the reactor, Malcolm.  
  
Reed's eyes left hers, briefly, to touch upon the phase pistol pointed at him in Hoshi's stuttering hand. His own hand, she now saw, was hovered only inches from the panel he stood by. I can't, he said.  
  
I gave you an order, Lieutenant!  
  
Hoshi put in, feeling suddenly sick to the stomach as she realized what she had allowed to happen, he's telling the truth. He can't. The silence from the captain was question enough. He was sleepwalking, earlier tonight. Something's controlling him, it's not his fault.  
  
And you knew about this?  
  
Hoshi's voice disappeared inside her throat, hearing the justifiable anger in the captain's.  
  
Talk to him, Archer ordered.  
  
Sir . . .  
  
Talk to him!  
  
Hoshi swallowed back the rise of her own questions, recognizing that rare tone—there was no arguing with the captain on this one. She took a hesitant step forward, allowing the phase pistol to relax a little to her side, and saw Reed's body brace at the approach. She halted, not wanting to alarm him—or whatever it was that controlled him.  
  
she prompted, as soft as her voice could fall before the sirens overpowered it. Malcolm, what happened? I thought when I woke you up last time you were . . . you, again. You're awake now, why can't you step away like last time?  
  
I don't know, Ensign. Maybe the stakes just got a little bit higher. He smiled wanly, a twisted tug at the corner of his mouth. He wants me to burn out the warp reactor.  
  
Trip's indignant twang came loudly over the com. That'll leave us dead in the water. We'd be stuck on impulse engines for weeks!  
  
Reed replied.   
  
Hoshi took in the landscape of his face sadly. What was clear to her in here could not be clear to Trip, to the captain, out there, but she saw it. She had seen it once already tonight. He knew he was losing control. And it frightened him. If he wants you to disable the warp reactor . . . then why hasn't he made you press that button yet?  
  
She watched as a fine bead of sweat broke on his brow and tumbled down the side of his face, tracing through the high sheen already there. When he spoke, he spoke quietly, and only to her. Because I'm fighting him, Hoshi. But I don't know how much longer I can hold him off.  
  
There was that him' again—whatever was happening to the lieutenant, whatever those nanobots were doing to his system, they were causing hallucinations, just as they had been warned. He clearly believed a single entity of some kind was doing this to him.  
  
came Archer's voice again, breaking the moment. Reed did not take his eyes from her, or she from him.  
  
Yes, Captain? she stammered.  
  
That phase pistol set to stun?  
  
Yes, sir.  
  
Be ready,  
  
Hoshi almost yelled the argument, stunned at how easily she had almost forgotten what they were dealing with. Captain, we don't know what even the stun on this thing may do if it reacts with the nanobots. We don't know anything about them. It might disable them, or destroy them . . . or it may make them do something to harm Malcolm. I don't know about you but I wouldn't want to risk that. She saw his sharp eyes flinch as she spoke, a distant spark lighting them for the barest, briefest instant; and what was more, she recognized the cause. It was . . . disbelief.  
  
she tried, one last time. If I come closer, what would he do? Would he make you push that button? Do you think he'd be too strong for you if he were under pressure?  
  
That mournful smile surfaced again, and his outstretched hand shook, violently. You've got it in one, Ensign.  
  
What if . . .  
  
I'm running out of time. He's too strong for me. The last was barely a whisper, but it seemed to swell and echo in her head, beyond the reach of the wailing sirens. He's taunting me, Hoshi. Don't you hear it? Before she could reply, he smiled one last time, tragically, and muttered: No, of course you don't.  
  
Hoshi's fingers curled tighter about the phase pistol at her side. She stopped, closed her eyes a moment, and breathed deeply. The lemonade scent was overpowering.  
  
_(it's hard to aim accurately when you're tense)_  
  
She relaxed, but it hurt to do it.  
  
When she opened her eyes again, her body quivering from the harsh intake of poisoned air, Reed was still staring unflinchingly at her, determination etched into every fine line, and every deeper one. he mouthed.  
  
Hoshi fought to keep her arm at her side. Friends don't shoot each other.  
  
She had struck a nerve, and she knew it. His stance had never once altered; but his eyes had flinched again, as if she had physically hit him. Whatever that line meant to him, it meant something.  
  
I almost did, he said.   
  
Gulping, Hoshi raised her weapon  
  
_(just point straight at the target)_  
  
relaxed her shoulders  
  
_(and try and keep your shoulders relaxed)_  
  
and took a deep breath. He had always had faith in her ability to use one of these. Always encouraged her. Irritable and impatient a teacher as he was, he had coached her at her request, spent his time and effort . . . so that she wouldn't mess up when it came to the crunch.  
  
he said.  
  
Hoshi took aim, and fired. The beam struck him square in the chest. He slumped to the floor, motionless in a fog of fumes and black smoke.  
  
There was one last echo in her head, as she stood in shock over his unmoving body, one last voice from their lessons in phase pistol targeting. She had always doubted, back then, that it could be true.  
  
_You'll get the hang of it._


	11. PUPPET ON A STRING

PUPPET ON A STRING  
  
_You'll get the hang of it._  
  
Hoshi's fingers slackened their hold on the phase pistol, the lucidity gone from her shaking hands and the thought which puppeted them. That was how she felt, a puppet worked by unseen hands, its strings finally cut.  
  
The phase pistol slipped from her oily grasp and clattered carelessly to the deck, the sound ringing hollowly into harsh echoes, eventually drowned by the strident blare of the sirens. Reed was not moving.  
  
She stumbled forward the few steps between them, her nerveless legs nearly spilling her to the deck beside him, and dropped to her knees like a stone in the dissipating smoke. Her fingers reached out to him, meaning to check his pulse—but she recoiled, and let her hands fall back to her sides. One of three things could be true, and two of them were horrifying enough that the suggestion of them held her back. There was a chance, a slim, outside chance, that he would wake again, and that he would be as helpless to hold back from harming her as he had been to step away from that panel. There was a chance he would be fine, unconscious and unharmed . . . but there was also a chance, a far greater chance, that the pulse she had almost reached for would not be found.  
  
She knelt, dazed, watching his wan face and closed eyes while around her the smoke cleared and the saturating smell of sherbet and lemon and crackling ice in a warm glass filled her nose and head. Sleeping, he had been only restlessly stilled, without peace; now, he finally looked tranquil.  
  
she breathed—not expecting an answer, but testing for one, in case the first of her fears should be true, and he should wake again.  
  
There was nothing. He lie motionless, pale, silent, every bit the severed puppet she herself felt like—only in his case, that analogy was too close to the truth for comfort.  
  
Suddenly, choked off between screams, the sirens stopped.  
  
Behind her, muffled by the swell of shock around her, there came the purr of the doors opening, and the dull, even thuds of booted feet entering hastily. Of course; with the ship now stepped down from tactical alert, the emergency lockdown that had sealed engineering would be released.  
  
A gentle hand touched briefly on her shoulder and was gone, and she stirred, barely registering the presence of another behind her. She tore her eyes from Reed's horrible stillness, and raised them to see Trip standing over her, urging her away with concern etched deep into his clear, direct eyes. Soft, for all the conscious professionalism hardening them like diamonds. He had retrieved her discarded phase pistol and was holding it loosely at his side in his free hand.  
  
You did good, Hoshi, he murmured, his singsong lilt subdued.   
  
Hoshi allowed Trip to raise her to her feet, grateful of his failed attempts to make her feel better—but no matter what she did her eyes always returned to Reed, and held there. He . . . he'll be all right . . . won't he? Her voice faltered giddily.  
  
Phlox is on his way, Trip replied carefully, pulling her insistently aside by the elbow. The cap'n just called him.  
  
Hoshi nodded, her open mouth speechless, her lips trembling as her teeth began to chatter stupidly. She had finally learned to aim straight at a live target—and ended up shooting the friend who had spent his time and effort to teach her how. She wondered, grimly, if he would be proud of her. That would be so like the irritable Malcolm Reed she knew.  
  
Captain Archer arrived in engineering only moments later, a security detail circling him with phase pistols poised. Hoshi swallowed a bitter knot in her throat. Normally, Lieutenant Reed would be heading that detail, confronting an intruder, protecting the captain. Only this time, he was the intruder.  
  
Archer's long, even stride was purposeful, controlled, his bearing that of authority and assurance. He knelt, silently, and pressed his index and middle finger into the hollow beneath Reed's jaw. Archer's face remained expressionless, even his color refusing to drain or mettle in response. The three security men kept their phase pistols trained on Reed until Archer raised his hand to hold them back.  
  
Stand down, he ordered. His voice was even, and Hoshi wished he would say something, anything, to let her know the lieutenant was all right. He must be all right . . . mustn't he? She had only stunned him.   
  
Trip's hand still rested on her arm, and he stood close, silent, his face the same expressionless mask as the captain's.  
  
You okay, Hoshi? he asked, finally.  
  
  
  
You're shakin'.  
  
She half-turned to him, thankful that Trip's heady aftershave canceled out the tangy ghosts that still lingered beneath the smoke. She didn't dare reply. If she opened her mouth, if she tried to produce even a sound, she would cry. She didn't want to cry in front of everybody, here, now.  
  
Doctor Phlox arrived soon enough, and his stocky body obscured her view of Reed where he lie. Trip took her forcibly by both shoulders, pulling her to him and away from the scene, and she let him, recognizing that he was too strong for her to resist. She went limp in his hold.  
  
He slipped an arm around her shoulders for support, and she leaned gratefully into him. She looked up once into his face, long and hard, hoping to find the glimmer of reassurance she needed. He was trying, but that rare, stern quality had settled into his face, transforming him instantly from Trip into Commander Tucker. He was white as paper and looked as brittle, his cool eyes frozen into distance. He didn't need to say a word.  
  
She knew that there was something terribly wrong.  
  
-----------------------------------  
  
Reed was rushed straight to sickbay, Phlox and Archer half-running alongside. Trip had fought to hold her back, but she had known this was her fault, and not known just _what_ was her fault—so she struggled out of his grasp, and sprinted after them. If Trip was angry with her for that, he didn't show it; he just followed her, silently, and knowing better than to try and restrain her again.  
  
Phlox cushioned her from charging headlong into sickbay after them, stopping her with an outstretched hand.  
  
I'm sorry, Ensign. I'm going to have to ask you to wait outside. Phlox's bright, uncommitting gaze alighted briefly on Trip, then flickered back to her. You too, Commander.  
  
Hoshi opened her mouth to protest, but Trip's hand curled around her upper arm again, and nudged her back from sickbay's door. He's givin' the orders, here, Ensign, he said, not unkindly. He'll let us know once they have somethin'.  
  
She didn't care. It was her fault, all of it, and she had to see for herself. There must be far more going on in there than a routine medical procedure; their collective silence alone made that much indisputable. She had known those nanobots might be unpredictable; she had known, and had cast all her instincts aside, trusting rather to a superior officer's opinions . . .   
  
. . . or had she merely been afraid?  
  
She pushed past Phlox, frantic. In her panic, small though she was, she was more than even the bulky doctor or the athletic commander could hold back.  
  
Archer was standing beside the biobed where Reed lie, still motionless, and shockingly peaceful. Hoshi stumbled to a halt before them both, eyes raking the biobed for any hopeful signs of life, lungs breathing in deep in hopes of that distinctive, acid, living scent that had poured from him since all of this begun.  
  
His chest wasn't moving. And all she could detect in the air was the sterile tastelessness of sickbay, and the acrid suggestion of her own sweat, flooding from her in rivers beneath her crumpled uniform.   
  
she questioned, not taking her eyes from the bed. Her voice shuddered into broken syllables, some lost in a whisper, the rest tight as an over-taut bowstring in her throat.  
  
Archer came forward, slowly, and halted in front of Hoshi. He placed his body, deliberately, between she and Reed, breaking her senseless stare. Her gaze was drawn, forcibly, to the captain.  
  
Hoshi, I . . . There. There it was, the proof she had needed before the words were even spoken. At last, Archer's voice faltered, and the professional exterior collapsed like a card house in a breath of wind. I'm sorry, Hoshi. He's dead.  
  
-----------------------------------  
  
Trip had made only a token effort to hold her back, this time; now or later, she was going to find out the truth before the night was through. Better now, in relative privacy, and from the captain himself, than later, after hours of false hope.  
  
He allowed Phlox to usher the mortified girl away, watching quietly from a discreet distance and unable to help but remind himself just how young and innocent Hoshi was. He gulped back the sour tint to his mouth, shifting the phase pistol's treacherous weight in his hand.  
  
An echo filtered through his head and was lost again, a sharp point of memory in a paralyzed gulf, then gone. _I've invested far too much time trying to figure you out, Mr. Tucker.  
_   
Same could be said for you, buddy, Trip murmured. He hesitantly sidled his way around the far wall to Archer, not wanting to attract Hoshi's attention, and pulled him aside.   
  
Archer's look was grave, clearly expecting more bad news, but hardly expecting that news to be worse than the last. What is it, Trip?  
  
Trip brought the phase pistol round slowly, tilting its gauge upward to show Archer. He kept his voice low enough to escape the doctor's ears, and Hoshi's. I checked Hoshi's phase pistol, Captain.  
  
_My phase pistol,_ he thought coldly. _It was my phase pistol, not hers._ He gulped again, unable to say what needed to be said, knowing he had to.  
  
It's set to kill.


	12. LEMONADE

LEMONADE  


  
A monitor beeped in the dismal silence. It had beeped, indicating nothing they cared to know, at steady intervals of five seconds for this past hour, invading the restless silence passing between the three crewmembers watching the night slide away into morning in sickbay. Two of them were red-eyed, speechless, breathing only as a habit and not as a conscious bid for life; the third never to breathe again, stretched out on a biobed that was little more than a glorified mortuary slab.   
  
The captain had refused to leave before taking a moment to console her; it had been empty encouragement, and both knew it, but Hoshi appreciated his efforts and urged him to leave her be. She could read his face like an open book, as the cliché was; she had seen he had things to do and enquiries to make, and that she must take second place.   
  
Trip offered to remain with her, and almost before the captain had made signs to leave had stood in close, ushering her away, allowing room for Phlox to do his terrible job. Hoshi could only look gratefully at him, robbed of words. He had sat with her in sickbay, and in total silence, for the remaining hours of the night, just his presence a balm to the aches and wrenches inside her. Funny, she had had little chance to get to know Trip Tucker—but this one, basic act of human kindness told her everything about the commander that she needed to know.  
  
The silence was a physical thing, dense and alive. Hoshi's eyes continually crept across the hard deck towards the biobed where Reed lie, but always they stopped just shy, taking in the bed's base and no further. The silence reminded her that he was . . . that she had . . . if he were only sleeping, as she wanted to believe, then his dreams would never allow him to be this silent. The restlessness had disturbed her, back in her quarters, watching him twist and turn in her bunk—but now, she would give anything to witness it again.   
  
Sounds strange, doesn't it? Trip murmured, his usually buoyant drawl heavy with fatigue.   
  
Hoshi turned her head to him, grateful for the distraction and the excuse to focus her attention anywhere but at that bed. The commander's skin was ashen, his eyes colorless and cold; the laughter in them had died.  
  
What does? she prompted. Speaking, even two tiny words that left hardly a dent on the introverted hush, seemed too much like moving on. Accepting there was anything to move on _from_.   
  
Bein' so quiet, he sighed. I never could sleep when it was quiet.  
  
Hoshi swallowed, feeling it catch in her throat like a fishhook. It was the quiet that had waked her. After so many months sleeping in tune to the engines' lullaby, to suddenly miss that sound had been the catalyst that shocked her from a sleep she should never have been indulging to begin with. She shouldn't have agreed to decrypt the nanobots, shouldn't have been asleep during her watch . . . shouldn't have listened to him in engineering. She should never have been _in_ engineering. She should have let him disable the warp reactor. They could always get another reactor . . . but they could never find another Malcolm.   
  
It had been difficult enough to find the first beneath that impenetrable exterior.   
  
Do you think they'll be able to get the engines online okay? I mean . . . shouldn't you . . . she began.  
  
Trip let the sentence fall, and she was pleased he knew enough not to attempt to complete it for her. It was just another small thing for which she silently thanked him, and yet no small thing at all.   
  
Lieutenant Hess can handle herself. I reckon they'll be finishin' up down there fore they even miss me.  
  
Hoshi nodded, her brain doing nothing with the information her eyes and ears took in, letting his not quite idle chat wash over her.  
  
_Ride the waves._ It had always been such good advice, something she repeated to herself when stress threatened to blot out her coherent thought; but this felt like she was clinging to a life raft during a storm, thrown about by elements too strong for her to fight.   
  
I ran down a puppy, once, she said, distantly. On my bicycle. It . . . it shot out in front of me, and I . . . I couldn't stop in time. I heard the front wheel hit . . . it sounded so heavy, somehow. Like a rock slamming into a wet paper bag full of sand.   
  
That true? Trip asked, quietly.   
  
She nodded, and refused to look at him.   
  
Did the puppy sue?  
  
That startled a laugh from her she didn't know she had to give; it tasted strange on her lips, and sounded like it came from somebody else's vocal cords. she pleaded. Please, don't.  
  
Sorry. Don't know why I said that. He sounded truly contrite about the slip. Then, with more strength, and studying his interlaced fingers rested between his knees: He ordered you to do it, Hoshi. Don't you go forgettin' that.  
  
Hoshi sat up, running her hands through her tangled hair. She had been called out of bed when all of this begun, and her hair hung loose and wild over her face. No, Commander, he didn't. He didn't order me. She finally turned to the biobed, unflinching as her gaze fell on Reed's ghostly clay face, left uncovered while Phlox performed his tests. New stubble had begun to bristle his chin, proof he had not been himself for these two days, that something else had been haunting him. He asked me.  
  
-----------------------------  
  
Archer strode onto the bridge like an alligator were on his heels, his feet slamming brutally into the deck. A complement of five tired and empty faces looked up as he entered; news traveled fast on a ship this size. Travis was there, waked and brought to his post by the tactical alert, his normally smiling, open face strained and grave, the rich color of his skin drained and gray. The tactical station grinned like a toothless mouth as Archer stalked to his chair, and took his seat. He noticed wearily that the science station was as empty as tactical.   
  
Where's T'Pol? he demanded.  
  
As he was the senior crewmember present after the captain, Travis took the liberty of answering from the helm. She hasn't shown up, sir. She must have heard the sirens, but . . .  
  
_An inanimate object would have heard the sirens,_ Archer thought, uncharitably. It can wait, he growled. I want a channel open to VISAC. Now. They're going to give me some answers.  
  
Ensign Kerr took Hoshi's station, and Archer caught flickers of the Vulcan database on the screen as she searched for the necessary co-ordinates.  
  
Captain . . . these co-ordinates are different from the last time. Are you sure the Vulcan database has VISAC listed correctly?  
  
Archer glared at Kerr before he could stop himself. He was in no mood to be challenged on his own bridge. Open a channel Ensign, he repeated, forcing himself to speak more kindly. They had all lost a respected colleague here today, and some of them, as evidenced by Trip and Hoshi's dead-eyed faces in sickbay, had lost a friend. He must not allow himself to forget that his crew was every bit as mortified as he was.  
  
He had hand-picked Malcolm Reed for this post for several reasons, and all of them, he must now admit, had been purely professional ones. The lieutenant had tested highly in every physical and mental test, and his aptitude evaluations had more than qualified him. Archer's only concern had been that Reed was so unhealthily introverted and uncommunicative, and would fair poorly in team integration—but now, seeing the truly heartfelt grief on Trip's face, Hoshi's, Phlox's, Travis' . . . feeling as much himself . . . he realized that fear had been ungrounded. And he understood now that as well as recruit a relative stranger to protect the pride of Starfleet, he had never since taken the time to get to know the man.  
  
Now he never would.  
  
Channel open, sir, Ensign Kerr informed him, breaking the thought before it could lead Archer further from his first priority, the job in hand.  
  
The screen crackled, then blipped, once. Sparek's chiseled granite face appeared, stern and faintly greenish in the institute's unflattering lighting.  
  
Archer began, abruptly.  
  
Yes, Captain. I am Sparek, head of science at VISAC for the Vulcan High Command.  
  
Archer brushed off the unnecessarily formal introduction, knowing full well who and what Sparek represented, and annoyed that the Vulcan thought him stupid enough to have forgotten in so short a time. What Archer could not dismiss was the disdain. Emotionless, calm disdain, as if Archer had interrupted an important meeting and Sparek was impatient to have this discourse over.  
  
Sparek, your little favor' hasn't gone quite according to plan, he bit, caustically. Vulcans may have wormed their way out of responsibility for humans' slow development of warp technology, they may have twisted out of providing valuable information in the past . . . but they wouldn't prevaricate their way out of this.   
  
I do not know to which favor you refer.  
  
Archer felt his shoulders brace like a steel girder, the insult and the gall of this lying prim-faced lock-jawed Vulcan more than he was willing to tolerate, more than he was able to tolerate. He had allowed more give-and-take in the past than he wanted, especially both for and against T'Pol, but he would not tolerate the belittlement of this death. He reared from his chair and leapt the three or four steps to the screen, the hairs on his neck and arms bristling with tiny charges of electricity.   
  
My armory officer is lying dead in my sickbay because of the nanobots _you_ asked him to carry. He dropped his rising tone, stepping back from the screen; Sparek's face had remained unchanged throughout the accusation. You Vulcans always said that space was no place for humans. Well now there's one less human in space for you to worry about.  
  
I am uncertain what it is you expect me to say, Captain. I offer our condolences for your loss.  
  
What do I expect you to say? He was yelling now, and he didn't care. I expect you to explain yourself, Sparek. I want you to explain what's so important it was worth the life of one of my crew! Now what did you inject him with? What were those nanobots carrying?  
  
If the especially austere Vulcan had shown fear, surprise, anger, _anything,_ it would have largely placated Archer's rising bloodlust. But that blank nothingness was unbelievable. I assure you, Captain, I did not inject your crewman with anything.  
  
And you expect me to believe this? I saw you do it. We were at VISAC, two days ago. Ring any bells?  
  
Sparek intoned, softer even than before to deliberately strike a contrast against Archer's shouting. I can promise you, though I have heard of you, we have never before today met.  
  
Archer stared.  
  
-----------------------------  
  
The silence had seeped back in, and both Trip and Hoshi had let it, their attempts to revive the conversation coming up dry and falling flat. It seemed indecorous, even disrespectful, to talk.  
  
Trip could not help but feel more concerned for Hoshi than for his own feelings, or guilt—he was older, wider lived, and wilder in attitude. He had seen corpses before, had seen engineering accidents back at Jupiter Station and the like, and although it would be an outright deceit to pretend it ever got easier, you did get used to it. He had gotten used to these silences, a little, although his own experience had barely matured. Hoshi, however, was green as green could be. It was blatant that she was uncomfortable around corpses, that the sight and the silence burrowed into her like a worm, and that she was battling that aversion against a new, and even worse, element; this corpse was no nameless stranger, no alien. It was her friend. Her responsibility.   
  
Still, it looked unlike him, in many ways. That was probably a blessing. Malcolm Reed had always been a neat freak, always shaven, hair always rigidly combed into that practical shape, his uniform crease-free and clean as a whistle; but lying there he was disarrayed, his hair out of place, his uniform crumpled and stained with smoke, and his face showed new signs of bluish stubble beginning to thicken around his jaw.   
  
An officer at his best, after all, is always well groomed.  
  
Trip ventured, startled that his voice was so croaky, and dry. It felt like sand in his throat.  
  
  
  
I'm gonna step out for a few minutes. Got a coupla things I wanted to take care of.  
  
Hoshi reared up straight in her seat, eyes wide as saucers in her pallid, milky-coffee face. Why? Can't it wait?  
  
No, Ensign, it can't. Call me if the cap'n stops by.  
  
Trip rose, and purposefully turned away from Hoshi as he left—left her alone with Reed's silent accusations, forcing her, as he knew it would, to acknowledge, to relive, to reason, and to grieve, without a pillar to lean on. This was something he needed to do, for Malcolm but also, in so many ways, for Charles Tucker III—and perhaps this time alone was what Hoshi needed too, if she only knew it.  
  
It was the cusp of the ship's false dawn as he snuck from sickbay, that hinge between night and day when the shifts rotated and the rich smells of breakfast began to spill into the corridors from the mess hall. Normally this was one of Trip's favorite parts of the day; his ship was waking to a new dawn full of promise and discovery. Although it was traditionally the captain's prerogative to claim ownership on any vessel, it was the chief engineer who cared for her, improved her, and nurtured her. It was a symbiotic existence, the one dependent on the other, their welfare bound together—and this morning, the ship's voiceless silence, as if in salute to her lost crewman, was uncanny and disquieting as Trip prowled the corridors. The day spoke not of promise and discovery, but bleakness, silence, and questions without an answer.   
  
Whatever came next—and he knew there would be inquiries, an investigation, an autopsy—both the captain and Doctor Phlox had agreed with him on one thing; that Hoshi must never be told the phase pistol was set to kill. Let her imagine the nanobots responsible, as indeed they may be, and herself freed of guilt to a small degree. Trip knew he would never have that mercy. The phase pistol had been set to kill—_his_ phase pistol, _his_ responsibility—and it _had_ killed. It had killed a comrade who didn't want to die.  
  
But Trip remembered, all too bitterly, what that comrade _did_ want, when faced with death once before.   
  
_An officer at his best is always well groomed.   
_   
And so he would be.  
  
-----------------------------  
  
Hoshi glanced up as he returned, her face leaden with unshed tears, her cheeks still sullied with smoke and fumes. Her hair hung limp in her eyes and her fingers curled convulsively in the fabric of her uniform. She had not been crying, but perhaps, Trip speculated, she should have been.  
  
What did you . . ? she began, forlornly, and paused as he held the item in his hand aloft. Hoshi frowned, creasing her dirty, pretty brow and the hollows around her lampblack eyes into soft valleys. Her mouth quivered as she questioned him, and Trip watched her minutely, encouraging her to show the kind of emotion that he, in his official capacity, could not afford to. Why do you want that?  
  
Just somethin' he said to me, once, Trip replied. A slow smile broke over the forced stillness of his face, evoked by that one memory. Thought I'd do a friend a favor, that's all.  
  
He approached the bed with soft, respectful steps, boots clipping distantly on the deck with a sound like rain on a tin roof, and halted at the head of it, looking down silently. Then he took the electric razor he had fetched and gently, attentively, began to shave the new growth from the locked jaw and still throat.  
  
Hoshi crept up beside him, staring in silent bewilderment at this bizarre ritual a long time before she finally spoke.  
  
What . . . what are you doing that for?  
  
Malcolm had a thing about looking his best, Trip replied, with a gulp. Funny—he had expected that white skin to feel . . . colder, somehow. He shook his head, dislodging the nagging twinge of imagination. He was dead, Phlox had said so, the phase pistol had said so. If he was warm, then it must just be the room temperature, giving a false impression.  
  
Hoshi asked, suddenly. Do you smell that?  
  
Trip took a gulp of the air, concentrating past the sterile cleanliness of sickbay to pick out the sharper scent below it. Now you come to mention it . . . kinda smells like my mama's lemonade.   
  
Hoshi brushed past Trip, all the fear of approach apparently thrown to the wind and snatched away—and gingerly, like the biobed itself would bite, she curled her fingers in Reed's, and lifted his limp hand from the bed. Hers tightened grimly around it, clutching a lifeline, perhaps, facing the fact in front of her. Trip switched off the razor and watched her, silently relieved that she had been able to make this step.  
  
Trip . . . she choked. And Trip knew, from the use of his name if from no other intuition, that she had reached the same impossible conclusion as he had.


	13. IN THE DARK

IN THE DARK  


  
The blight in his eyes paled, a lucid light weeping into his unconscious vision, then darkening again. As a boy he had not been overly fond of the dark; he was concerned, even as a child, with security, and darkness made him . . . vulnerable. It was not a fear of darkness, as it would appear to anybody on the outside; but it was a rational caution. A sense of self-preservation.  
  
He was standing on a level surface, in a breezeless space, the secret, nasty reek of damp and decay fouling the air he breathed—if one could be said to breathe, in a dream. It was too humid, and fretfully tasteless. It was dead air; dead, and dirty. It was the smell and the heat, more than the darkness, which struck a chord in the back of his head as his other dreams had done, telling him which of his childhood memories this drew from.  
  
This was his parents' cellar.  
  
He had vivid recollections of this place, and none of them pleasant, none of them encouraged to surface in waking life. It had been an old cellar, older than the house it bolstered; always he had hesitated at the door, paralyzed as a child at having to snake his hand blindly around the doorjamb and fumble for the light switch, having to walk into the stuttering shadows, hearing the old wooden stairs groan under his weight. It had been so ancient, that cellar, that it relied still upon bulbs with a filament, the fixture newly-wired into the house's electrics, a gestalt between modern efficiency and tradition.  
  
A little, Reed mused, like himself.  
  
The first step down had always been the worst. That first step down into the dark, before he could reach the light switch tucked into the frame behind the door. Yes, a light switch. The cellar had been _that_ old. He was standing on that first step now; the creak and grind under his feet had its own distinct tune, one he still found he could remember to its finest detail after all those years. He scratched a shaking hand up the wall to his left, hunting out the light switch he knew had to be there, but half-fearing that in this dream it would not be. That it had been removed by that presence in the dark, the man who always visited at night, the one who dragged up forgotten horrors like a trawler's net dredging the dirt on an ocean bed for hidden pearls. The Dark Man. Malcolm's fingertips stumbled over the cold whitewash on bare stone walls, panic creeping in as he clutched and felt, and found nothing.   
  
Then he encountered the smooth plastic square, relief flooding him even as he denied he had ever been alarmed, and flicked it on.  
  
The darkness stared back at him.   
  
He flipped the switch again, hearing its dead click, seeing no light flare from the naked bulb. Dead. The bulb was  
  
_(dead Malcolm dead just like you it's)_  
  
dead.  
  
Reed gulped back the lump in his throat, but it hurt to; there was no moisture there and it was like swallowing razor blades. So there was no light, either by an accident of his own fevered mind or the design of the Dark Man's diseased brain; but if this was true to his memory, there should be a flashlight three steps in, on the utility shelf his father had kept stocked for emergencies, and there were—should be—spare bulbs and candles there, too.  
  
He ventured the second step down, hearing the groan of the splintered wood under his boots as his weight pressed into it. The staircase protested almost as loudly as his own urge to yell into that dark and demand an explanation. But he gritted his teeth, and kept the inclination to either panic or lose his temper, the only two instincts to try to stake a claim on him here, bitten firmly back. The water pipes in the ceiling gurgled as he took the next step, quickly. Those pipes seemed to speak to him, in watery voices like drowned men, voices that said no clear words but nevertheless danced on his fragile nerves. And that, at least, was true to his recollection, and encouraged him to expect that the shelf would be, too. This being, whatever it was, was forming locations from Reed's own history; it made sense to exploit the advantage that gave him. He groped his outstretched hand to the left, feeling blindly for the hard edge of the utility shelf he now knew would be there.  
  
_(was there, Malcolm, was there, but how do you know it's there now how do you know it hasn't been taken like the bulb has been taken)_  
  
He just did. As warped and twisted as these dreams were, mutilating his memories into shapes dark and unfamiliar, he had to have faith that the shelf, and the flashlight, would be there.  
  
His fingers encountered the wood, and closed with trembly relief around a cold plastic cylinder resting there. A flashlight. He ran his thumb along it, finding the raised hump of the switch, and clicked it on sharply.  
  
Dead. It, like the light over him, was dead. He wouldn't let it be dead.  
  
He clawed open the back of the flashlight, knowing even before he felt inside that the power cell would be gone. At some point it, and probably the bulb, had been removed.  
  
_This is just a dream. Stop acting like it's rational, like it's a puzzle you can solve. It isn't._  
  
But was it just a dream, a figment of his imagination, a tapestry woven of truth and exaggeration like any dream? Nothing in this darkness and this sickly cold felt random, extrapolated arbitrarily from the boxrooms of his mind; it felt _constructed_. Deliberate. Either way, they were his; but accidental or chosen, he still might have the advantage.  
  
A puzzle, waiting to be solved. But he was still groping blindly for the missing pieces.   
  
The pipes rattled above him, a ghost striking its fell voice from rusty metal, and Reed jumped, twisted this way and that, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck bristle with static. I would ask who's there, he called defiantly, bracing the blind flashlight in his hand as a makeshift weapon, but I already know. Come out.  
  
There was a whisper of wind that did not belong to this place, lifting the rotted stench into a fragrant breeze of soda with lime, sharp and clean in his dream-lungs. Then it was gone, and the damp reek returned.  
  
I don't know about you, Reed yelled again, caught undecided between fear and frustration, but I grew out of hide-and-seek about the same time I left nursery school.  
  
There was a pause. Far away, he heard a pipe dripping into the hard stone floor in a steady beat. Then, like a murmur through grass, came the voice he had heard too often already in his dreams:  
  
She blames herself, you know.  
  
Reed was too perplexed by the words to feel much relief, even, at being answered. She . . ? His mind groped, then stumbled by chance, or maybe just by the residue of events outside, upon the name the Dark Man had neglected to provide. Or purposefully left out. Hoshi? What on earth for?  
  
Why . . . for killing you, of course.  
  
The first time the emotive, magnetic voice he had grown morbidly fascinated with had come from his left, away down at the foot of the staircase he stood on; the second time, it came from much, much closer. Reed retreated those three steps he had so tentatively taken, hand groping backwards for the light switch, flipping it again, angrily. He flicked it back and forth, a second time, a third time, the empty plastic sound striking what felt like new nails in his coffin. There was no response.  
  
It won't work, Malcolm, the Dark Man soothed. You're dead. The lights have all gone out for you.   
  
Close by him this time, very close; he could feel the Dark Man's breath, could smell it, but when he swung the flashlight in a wide arc around him, he encountered nothing but air. Then make them come back on! he challenged. You're the one that's been doing this to me, aren't you? Those nanobots . . . they have nothing to do with it.  
  
The Dark Man sighed, as if wearied by a pestering child who could not, or would not, understand. They have everything to do with it, he breathed.  
  
Then fix it. Whatever's wrong with me, you can fix it, I know you can. Reed laughed, bitterly, closing his eyes against the blackness that obscured even the Dark Man's shrouded black form. That is . . . if there's even anything wrong with me at all. This might be nothing more than some elaborate trap.  
  
If I chose, I could repair the damage. The energy beam she fired on you was set to kill. The alien cells in your bloodstream—mine—absorbed that energy. Neutralized it, if you will, and dampened its effect. You suffered no damage beyond my ability to heal.  
  
Now I _know_ you're lying. Hoshi would never fire without checking that her phase pistol was set to stun. I've taught her better than that. But a nagging doubt persisted, despite the adamant retort; she had been in no state to know _what_ she was doing. Was it possible she had made a mistake? A horrible, to some unforgivable, mistake?  
  
You don't believe me, the Dark Man's tuneless, steely voice continued. It was not a question. You think this is a dream.  
  
Isn't it?  
  
You think I'm responsible for the dark. That I've somehow stolen the lights, that I'm lying to you. How do you even know the lights are at fault, Malcolm? How do you know I haven't blinded you? I control your mind in your dreams . . . remember?  
  
Reed swallowed, gulping down the greasy knot in his throat, sucking tasteless air into his protesting lungs. His knees were beginning to feel weak, and his posture was failing—but despite the dream-dark of his own mind, despite the fact there was nobody here to see him waver, Reed kept his head held high. I suppose I don't know, he said, but just because you control the dreams I have it doesn't mean you control _me_.  
  
The Dark Man exhaled in something which may have been an entirely humorless laugh. he said, everything I do here, I can also do in the real world. If I want to, I can make the lights come back. Or I can make it blacker. Tread wisely, Malcolm Reed.  
  
Suspicions were forming in Reed's naturally paranoid mind, suspicions which he would rather not entertain, but which would not leave him no matter how much he pushed them away. Suspicions about this man—this _alien_—and his questionable motives. What would make you want to? he asked. What would I have to do? _What would I have to do to earn that? Sell my soul?_ It was only barely a joke.  
  
I named the price before there was a favor to sell. You know what I ask.  
  
You mean delay the _Enterprise_? Stop it reaching Titrinus on time? I know that, but . . . why? You're going to have to explain yourself, _sir_, before I can be persuaded to lift a finger for you. Price or no price.  
  
That sigh again, humoring an impertinent child who refused to accept the truth of what he heard. As you wish, the Dark Man murmured.   
  
There, like a pinprick in a velvet curtain, a tiny point of light appeared. Its pallid glow, as he watched, began to spread like cold fingers reaching for its prey.  
  
------------------------------  
  
Hoshi squeezed the hand in hers tightly, a part of her warning her to let up, not to crush his tepid fingers, and the larger part not caring. There was warmth in those fingers, in the calloused skin; warmth, and _life_. The fresh tang in the air, nestling on her tongue and in her nose, was the smell of a second chance, and she knew that she would never again be able to drink a glass of lemonade without thinking, in some small way, of this.   
  
She did not take her eyes from Reed's new-shaven face as Trip set down the razor and tested for a pulse as the captain had done; she daren't look away, for fear she may miss some defining movement that would confirm what her eyes were seeing.   
  
Is he . . ? She gulped, cleared her throat, and tried again. I mean, is there . . ?  
  
Is there a pulse? Trip was speaking softly, muted by awe and the sheer gravity of what he was witnessing; but his eyes were bright with sparks, excited and feverish. I think so. It's faint, and I'm no medic, but I'm pretty sure it's there. A grin smothered his paleness, lighting every detail of his face with boyish optimism. I think I'd better go give the cap'n the good news, don't you, Ensign?  
  
Hoshi smiled a slight, private smile to herself as Trip sauntered from the room, hasty and making a failed pretense as being otherwise. She could tell this was one piece of news he would relish delivering. As would she, she thought, staring down intently; mapping the hard lines now softened in sleep. The frown, like this, was vanished from him; he looked younger, at peace.   
  
As would she.  
  
she whispered, not knowing and not caring if he heard her. Malcolm, I don't expect you to answer me or anything, okay, but . . . I'm sorry I shot you. I didn't know any of this would happen. She half-breathed, half-laughed the words, caught between hope and horror, unable, entirely, to accept the warm blood beneath equally warm skin as anything more than her imagination. Talk to me, Malcolm. After all, that's my job, isn't it? To listen.  
  
And she imagined, or perhaps she truly felt, his hand grow warmer in reply.  
  
------------------------------  
  
There was a warmth pressing against Reed's dream-hand; a warmth without weight, without texture, a warmth he could feel but could not grasp. A phantom echo of the real world, piercing his unconscious one. Reed let his heavy eyes slip closed, dreaming within a dream, and watched the translucent patterns of sickbay imprinted on the internal darkness, a projection of light without light. They were pale, a merest shimmer of white-blue corpse-light illuminating nothing they touched—and when he opened his eyes to the blackness outside, they remained, existing on both levels of his mind. He didn't understand how he saw what he saw, but he was seeing the outside world through closed eyes.  
  
he whispered, but no sound would come, not even here. It nestled on his tongue and died there, unspoken.  
  
She can't hear you, that voice teased. You want to go back, don't you? You want to be able to tell her she did what she had to do, what _you_ would have done.  
  
That's not true, Reed forced, mustering what indignation he had left to him. Every instinct and every emotion felt sapped dry. I would have checked my phase pistol before I shot anyone.  
  
A hum of tempered laughter sounded close at his shoulder, infusing those fizzy fumes into the air Reed breathed. Keep watching. There's more. Are you sure you need convincing? What could there possibly be to prevent you?  
  
There's you. I don't like mysteries when they're aimed at me. You don't want these nanobots delivered—fine. You want me to keep the ship away from the rendezvous at Titrinus. Again, fine. But you're going to have to tell me why.  
  
And if you don't like my responses? Are you going to refuse my offer? Going to let your friends live with the mistakes they made, with your death? I can wipe the blood from their hands . . . as can you. All you have to do is give the word.  
  
Reed could feel sweat crawling along his brow, down his back, freezing on his cheeks in the sunless cold. Everything in his entire body—his residual dream-body—was clamoring to give his word and agree, whatever the reasons for this oblique request. To accept the gift with which this being tempted him with fleeting glimpses, the images a faded whisper of their true selves. His life back. It sounded so cold when he put those three words together, so stark, so stupidly melodramatic—but it was in no way exaggerated. If he said yes, if he took an assignment with no idea of the consequences, no idea if it was the right side or the wrong, then he would get his life back. He could always change his mind, always use this as a means to an end and later investigate in the safety of the _Enterprise_; he could always turn back on the agreement.  
  
No. He couldn't. He had to let his yes' mean yes'. Whatever Reeds were, Navy men or Starfleet men, they were honorable.  
  
Shame most of them were such emotional cripples into the bargain.  
  
A single word, all he had to say. But the fragment of pessimism that had shaped his life and his career since he was a child held it back, against his baser instincts. He had lived by that fragment, by his wits, for too long now to ignore it at the very last. This being had asked him, opaquely, if he was sure he hadn't been blinded; that the lights were really out. How could he be sure, in like manner, that he was really dead? The Dark Man may be holding him here in a limbo between life and death merely to force just such a promise as this from him. This whole situation he bargained to free himself from may have been a trap set for him all along. Or this may all be in his own mind.  
  
There was no way to tell.  
  
------------------------------  
  
Hoshi found herself alone as Commander Tucker fetched the captain, alone with the responsibility to see that he didn't slip back into that deceptive coma again during those endless minutes. She tried counting to fifty in every language she knew—an exercise which, in normal circumstances, could take her hours—but within the first handful of each her mind wandered back to Reed's face, reminded of how dead he still looked in many ways. She wanted to call Doctor Phlox, but that would mean leaving him unattended, and she knew that Trip would bring the doctor back with him without her interference. Her interference had done far too much damage already tonight.  
  
Aside from the revival in his hand, faint at best, and the pulse Trip reported to have found, there was little sign of life. She couldn't hear breathing, saw no movement of his chest under the uniform. Gingerly, Hoshi licked her palm and held it hovered over Reed's nose and oddly tight-closed mouth. She had seen this done by medics arriving on the scene of an accident when no medical scanners were available; testing for breath, waiting for the carbon dioxide to blow cold against the moist skin.   
  
She waited. The sharp sensation she had hoped for did not come.  
  
In her other hand, his had begun to grow cold again.  
**   
**M . . . Malcolm? she stammered. Malcolm, don't you dare! Stay with me, Lieutenant! If I wasn't only an Ensign, I . . . I'd order you!  
  
Hoshi pulled her tangled hair away from her shoulders, clasping it at her neck with her right hand, and lowered her head to his chest, pressing her ear against the uniform still thick with the dry reek of smoke. The heartbeat of which Trip was so confident had fallen silent.   
  
Malcolm, I order you to breathe! You're always telling me you're a survivor, that it's your job, well then _start surviving_!  
  
A voice behind her startled her into dropping his hand, and she spun to see Captain Archer, Commander Tucker, and Phlox at the door, watching her expressionlessly. Only Trip looked mildly troubled, neither so adept nor so inclined to contain his emotion as the captain and Phlox did. He was in a position where he could afford to indulge his feelings.   
  
Captain . . . we're losing him, she choked. She looked pleadingly at Phlox, at Trip, her eyes finally settling on the captain. Seeking reassurance, she supposed, when she knew deep down that there was nothing any of them could do.   
  
But wait.  
  
------------------------------  
  
Are you going to let this happen, Malcolm? Let them think there's a chance only to see you die again?  
  
Reed shuddered, pressing his lips together to quell the rising chatter there. He felt as if two gales, one east and the other west, collided in the exact spot in which he stood, wailing through him and pulling in two incompatible directions. Just tell me one thing; what are these nanobots? Tell me and I'll give you a straight answer, yes or no. The images of Hoshi, of sickbay and the newcomers and the light out there in the real world, pulled away from him, and sank into the black. The contact at his hand, which he could feel but not quite grasp, was suddenly broken.  
  
He was alone. Alone with the Dark Man.   
  
He had always been alone.  
  
It's not for me to tell, that creeping voice confided. All I can tell you is that they're not what you think they are.  
  
Did you want me to act surprised?  
  
There was a flare of sudden light; not the icy, lifeless light of the projections but a dirty, yellow light like a stained light bulb, cutting muddy swathes across the gloom. The Dark Man was there in that light, his tall, slim frame a black silhouette in the yellow pools, a long coat whispering around his shins even though the air was still as glass in his parents' cellar.   
  
You're already closer to waking than you think. The lights could get brighter.  
  
Or they could go out, Reed stated, flatly. He saw all too clearly the choice before him, a terrible choice; he didn't need any further demonstration. If I agree to do what you want me to do then I wake up. And if I don't . . .  
  
The web of shadows glowering still within the lowered hood shifted, and broke. There, faint and almost imperceptible, Reed saw an inhuman mouth twitch valiantly against a smile. If you don't . . . then you don't.


	14. YELLOW LIGHT

YELLOW LIGHT  
  
The silence settled like a veil. Reed let it. This was a fundamental principle of security, as infallible as it was respected. If it becomes impossible to prove a thing to be true, then let the opposition attempt to prove it _untrue_, and thus show themselves to be wrong.  
  
_Or, to put it another way, give a dog enough rope and he'll hang himself.  
_   
He smiled to himself, grimly confident. He may be the mouse in this game, technically the weaker; but how many times, in those frivolous cartoons Commander Tucker loved so much, had he seen the humble mouse win? What will you do, if I refuse? Reed asked, suddenly.  
  
If the Dark Man was surprised, then he was careful to smooth it away before he responded. His voice, when he spoke, was smooth as glass. All you need know is, if you refuse, _you_ won't be doing anything. Ever again.  
  
But what will _you_ do? You see, it seems to me I'm the only one that knows about you, or can even see you or hear you. I'm not quite sure why that is; but I would assume it was because you put these—these alien cells—in me when I was too young to stop you, so you could control me now. Let me die and you lose the only foothold you have aboard this ship.  
  
There was a bitter twang of laughter, sharp as a plucked string on an out of tune harp. You're trying to trick me. It won't work.  
  
Reed did not bat an eyelash. It _has_ worked. A little bit of me must still be alive to be having this dream. You haven't let me go yet. You won't.  
  
There was that strain of a signature scent again, a rustle on his face, his neck, his hands, anywhere that bare skin showed. Reed was beginning to notice that scent grew stronger at the Dark Man's most active times—the times when some outside influence or Reed himself challenged him, interrupted him, or broke the dream.   
  
You seem very confident, the Dark Man purred, considering how little you know about me.  
  
I _am_ confident. You need me as much as I appear to need you. Whether or not I agree to your little proposal is beside the point. If I'm dead, then you have to start over again, with another crewmember, if you can; if I'm alive there's always the chance you can convince me later.  
  
The figure remained motionless. Then that is your answer?  
  
I didn't give you an answer. I don't answer ultimatums. Neither do I give in to blackmail.  
  
Is a mutual exchange of favors blackmail?  
  
It is when one party is forced into the exchange.  
  
Silence fell back like dust, yielding only for a little while to their talk before returning to its accustomed place. The Dark Man—although the term man' seemed ludicrously inaccurate to Malcolm now—either had no reply to that, or else held it back to unnerve his prey a little further. Malcolm itched to shuffle his feet, but clamped down on it—hard. He mustn't allow any sign of fear. People like this fed from any such knowledge of their opponent.  
  
You're trying to bluff me, Malcolm Reed. Don't kid a kidder, isn't that an old human expression?  
  
Reed did not flinch, not outwardly; but inside he could feel himself crumbling. He took a deep breath, sure the Dark Man heard it, but nonetheless needing it. He knew it wasn't air he breathed, but psychologically it helped to calm his shattered nerves. So you know your history.  
  
I _am_ history.  
  
What's that supposed to mean? Am I supposed to be impressed? Scared? You'll find I don't scare easily.  
  
Although he could not quite see it in the gauze of shadow, Reed was sure he sensed the faceless, nameless being smile. If a wisp of memory or imagination or whatever he was could feel amusement. But you _are_ scared, aren't you? he murmured, almost gently. This is your mind, Malcolm. There's nothing here that you can hide from me.  
  
Reed opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again, with nothing to say. Absently, he noted that the back of his right hand had begun to itch again.  
  
You want to say yes, the purring voice continued, stirring butterflies in Reed's stomach. Oh, you know your duty. You care about your friends, your ship. But it's not quite enough, is it? You're a weapons man, Malcolm. A security man. A _fighter_. You know it's survival of the fittest, that you have to put yourself first. You don't want to die . . . isn't that what you once told Commander Tucker?  
  
With every word and every popping breath, Reed felt his resolve weakening, each accusation striking a stronger blow than the last. It was true, all of it. He didn't want to die. He remembered the shades of sickbay, the way the people he had begun to regard as friends had rallied around him . . . he remembered their concern. He had finally built a life for himself, a life he could be happy in; he didn't want to lose it now.  
  
_If you fight and run away, you live to fight another day. _  
  
But if he did what the Dark Man asked—if he did, and it turned out that this was the wrong side, that the nanobots were as harmless and as imperative as the Vulcans professed—then he would lose that friendship. Would have _squandered_ it. The thing he wanted to live for would be gone. But if he let go now . . . if he refused . . . they would at least remember him with respect. He would have died selflessly.   
  
You might as well give me your answer, Malcolm. I know what it is you're feeling. Just give the word, and you can wake up.  
  
Reed gulped, feeling it stick in his craw and burn a hole there. he said, with an effort. I won't. I won't risk the _Enterprise_. I won't betray my friends.  
  
That smile again, whispered, unseen. As you wish.  
  
----------------------------  
  
Hoshi came away at the captain's request, allowing Phlox the space to do his work in peace. In the long minutes that followed, as Phlox scanned Reed's inert body, she did not seem to catch a breath at all. The tiny bit of hope she nursed may be dashed at any moment by a single shake of the doctor's ridged head, and she knew it.  
  
I felt it, she insisted, speaking more for her own assurance than to anybody present. I felt his hand get warmer. I didn't imagine it.  
  
Same here, Cap'n, Trip concurred. There was a pulse, I'd stake my life on that.  
  
Phlox straightened up beside the biobed, tapping at the scanner with a frown knitting the bony cartilage of his forehead. Then I would expect, Commander, for you to be in urgent need of medical attention. There was a trace of raw humor, an attempt to lift the weight in the room, but his face remained respectfully sober throughout. He addressed the captain next. I'm sorry, Captain. I don't doubt the commander and Ensign Sato were correct at the time. It is not unusual for muscle spasm and the like to occur after death . . .  
  
Three hours after death? Trip demanded, incredulous.   
  
Phlox spared him a glance, noting the sarcasm, but he continued undeterred. Perhaps it is not usual for humans. However I have witnessed cases when an individual has spoken up to six hours after death, when no lifesigns are present.  
  
You're not helpin', Trip interrupted. Archer quieted Trip with a raised hand, and nodded, once, to Phlox. I think all we need to know for now, Doctor, is if there are _any_ lifesigns. Anything at all.  
  
I'm sorry, Captain. There are none.  
  
Archer came over to where Hoshi stood, her hand clasped over her mouth, eyes locked on the biobed. She had held it all away, till now; she hadn't cried, hadn't given in to the girlish, emotional grip that might have overwhelmed her only a few months back . . . but there was heat in her eyes and a crack in her throat now.  
  
she croaked. Having him die because of her had been bad—having him almost return only to discover it wasn't what she thought was so much worse. It was only a stun, what went wrong? I don't . . .  
  
Archer reached to lay a hand on her shoulder, but thought better of it and withdrew it again, leaving her be. There's a lot about the last two days we don't know, Hoshi. I'm sure there's nothing you could have done, he said. She could hear the deliberance in his voice, choosing his words with care. Hiding something from her.  
  
She nodded, her hand moving with it. I know, she forced, but it emerged only as a voiceless husk.  
  
Phlox interrupted, suddenly. Archer looked up sharply and Hoshi, somewhat belatedly, followed his gaze. Trip had gone over to the doctor and was peering over his shoulder at the scanner Phlox studied.   
  
What is it, Doctor? Archer asked wearily.  
  
Unless I'm sorely mistaken, Captain . . . it's a heartbeat.  
  
----------------------------  
  
Light flared, driving the shadows back against the far stone walls, dappling a squeamish yellow light dense as butter on the packed earth floor and unpolished wooden stairs. Reed blinked, the sudden light catching him off-guard. That he had expected and braced himself for a complete darkness to descend from that first faltering light only added to his disorientation. This new, insipid light was thrown by a naked bulb in the string-wrapped fixture overhead—just as the light in his parents' cellar had always been, when he found the light switch at last after that first difficult step. This difficult first step had been taken. His darkness had been lifted.  
  
He swallowed, the taste foamy and sugar-sweet in his throat. Why . . . why am I not dead? he asked, defensive in intent, but lacking somewhat in force. What on earth is going on?  
  
This time he did not imagine it; the twist in the hood's shadows became a definite, lazy smile. Because you passed the test. I had to be sure of you. I had to know you were trustworthy.  
  
For a moment, a flash flood of thoughts shot through Reed's mind, no single instinct dominant over the roar, no obvious answer presenting itself. If this being could be believed and this sickly light trusted, then death had never been any real danger. His hands shook, and the fingers clamped grimly around the flashlight went lax, letting the cylinder clatter to the ground. It bounced, skipping from step to step, and skidded to a shuddering halt at the foot of the staircase.   
  
It _had_ been a trick. Just not the one he thought.  
  
You mean you never had any intention of letting me die? he demanded, hotly. He had hoped the heat would hold back the quiver in his voice, but he could still hear it there, audible in the undertones. And besides . . . the entity, this Dark Man, existed, it seemed, only in his mind, and knew what he attempted to hide even before Malcolm himself did. The idea made his skin crawl; an invasion of his privacy as well as an invasion of his dreams, his actions, his life. He couldn't hide himself away behind a wall from this being. You were just toying with me?  
  
The hood dipped in a gesture not unlike a nod, but more, perhaps, like a bow. As if the alien before him had just been paid a compliment. I've spent far too much time trying to figure you out, Mr. Reed, the Dark Man said, pleasantly.  
  
Get out of my head! Reed yelled, recognizing the words that had come from his own mouth, in a different time, a different place. Seeing his own ironies thrown back at him from the depths of his memory.  
  
As this entity had done all along.  
  
I'm not strictly _in_ your head, Malcolm. I'm in your blood, in your cells. You can't cut me out like a tumor, if that's what you were wondering.  
  
The thought had crossed my mind. The sudden blow of living—a gift, it had been called, but it left him reeling as if he had been hit—had taken its toll on him. He was in no mood for games. But why all this secrecy? And what _right_ do you have . . .  
  
I would calm down, if I were you, the Dark Man interrupted. It isn't good for your heart.  
  
Reed laughed, breathlessly. This alien's audacity had not yet failed to amaze him. You mean I have a heartbeat?  
  
When the Dark Man replied, the voice didn't come from the ghostly figure standing in front of him, netted in stuttering shadow. It was barely a voice at all, and it placed the words directly in his head. This whole scene was in his head, of course, but this voice was disembodied from the physical representation standing on the steps in front of him.   
  
_Your friends have just detected it. They're waiting for you to wake up.  
_   
And when will that be? Reed asked out loud.  
  
_When I want you to. And there's no need to shout. I can read your thoughts . . . remember?_  
  
Reed muttered, but saw no point in speaking aloud any more. _How could I forget? So I passed your test. I assume you're going to ask me about that favor' again?_  
  
_Perhaps. But not here. You are . . . uncomfortable in this setting, aren't you?_  
  
Reed glanced about him, seeing the dark corners that had always worried him as a boy, hearing the creak of the stairs under his feet as he shifted and the bare clink as the filament in the old bulb crackled. It had always made that sound just before going dark. _You know I am. That's why you chose it . . . correct?_  
  
_Correct.  
  
And the pond? The storm? Did you just want me to remember . . . or did you use my memories to unsettle me into the bargain?  
  
What do you suppose?_ There was a bare amusement in the words, somehow. Without a voice, Reed considered that must be fairly difficult.  
  
_I suppose' that it was no coincidence you always arrived when I was . . . scared. You made me associate you with some of the worst moments of my life, to make me a nervous wreck, and to make me trust you for being there when I . . . Except for the storm. You actually had a purpose to it all the night of the storm, didn't you?_   
  
_I marked you . . . remember?_  
  
He did. He remembered a sizzling sensation like antiseptic cream on a graze, and that sickly-sweet smell of soda. Putting the alien cells into his system so they could be activated now. _Like it was yesterday.  
  
To me, it was. And is._   
  
_Now you've lost me.  
  
There is a lot to explain. But not here. The bad memories were to add to the test; I wanted to know how strong your sense of duty was. If you could be bought. By bringing you here, I convinced you I was the wrong side'._ There was a resigned sort of humor to that, weary.  
  
_I'm still not entirely convinced you aren't.   
  
Then choose somewhere. Somewhere you feel comfortable. And I'll explain.  
_


	15. THE SHADOWLANDS

THE SHADOWLANDS  
  
The dirty yellow whitened, the tiger-stripes of light and dark shifting and reforming from the murky environment of the cellar into the bluish lights and blood-deep thrum of the location he had chosen—but for a blip of time in between he was nowhere, no _when_. The frame, a black and white slide among a reel of color, was over almost before it had begun, and for that instant Reed was standing on nothing, breathing in nothing, feeling cold fingers reaching for him. Then he was standing firmly in decon, breathing its crisp, recycled ship-air, laced only faintly with that ever present chemical fizz that saturated every breath he swallowed.  
  
The Dark Man stood still as a statue, untouched by the glowing EM rays and illuminated by nothing, his coat and hood a black hole cut from the scene like a gingerbread man removed from the slab with a pastry cutter. Only two faint points of light glittered in the depths of the hood; remnants of the shadowlands, the nothing behind the now, that Reed had touched upon so briefly and never wanted to encounter again.  
  
_Cozy_. The Dark Man's amusement, it seemed, had grown indulgent, watching his newest pet settle into these surroundings. Reed could relate to that—he was beginning to feel like a lab rat running a maze. That was what he had volunteered for, wasn't it? At the institute. The captain had used those selfsame words, demanding who this lab rat was supposed to be.  
  
A lab rat. But still, Reed mused bitterly—forgetting for the moment that his thoughts were not his own—there was no sign of an exit.  
  
_I thought so,_ he responded, trying to appear nonchalant.  
  
_Why here?_  
  
_If you can read my mind then you should know._  
  
Despite this alien's willingness, now, to aid him, Reed was far from convinced that any of it was of benign origin; so much more likely that this being obliged him only to lead him into a false sense of security. Reticent still, he replied: _I've always found this place . . . comforting._  
  
_Why not the spa in Mexico?_  
  
Reed was taken aback at the question, one that relied on information he had given to only a few people. He had mentioned that spa to only two of the crew, and nobody else. _This is . . . closer to home_, he faltered, wanting always to follow his natural instinct and speak from the throat. For a man of few words but many quick thoughts, the challenge of limiting the words in his head only to those he would permit to leave his mouth was proving more strenuous than being dead had done. He focused fiercely on the mild warmth his pleasant memories of the room had conjured, and the hum, and the filter of the bluish light through his lids when he closed his eyes . . . but the more wandering part of his brain insisted, nevertheless, on dwelling upon his more vivid memories of decon, alone with the two most beautiful women onboard, and neither of them overdressed for the occasion. That was one private, personal element he did not want some nameless alien to be a party to, but the more he concentrated on avoiding it, the more it continued to surface.  
  
_You think of the _Enterprise_ as home'?_ the Dark Man pursued, intrigued.  
  
_Now I do. Aren't you going to tell me where your home' is?_  
  
Only silence. Reed had long since toyed with the suspicion that if the Dark Man existed inside his mind and could read his thoughts, the reverse may also be true . . . but whenever he reached for some whisper that was not his own, he encountered a barrier, and was forced to fall back again.  
  
_If you want me to trust you, then you might as well start answering some of my questions. I've answered more than enough of yours. Why can't I read your mind if you can read mine? If you're in my head then shouldn't I have access to you like I do my own memories?_  
  
The singularity shaped like a man began to pace, draining life and sucking light from around him, the coat hushing Chinese whispers about him; and whether it was real or imagined, Reed thought the Dark Man had slowed, and moved somewhat sluggishly now.  
  
_Let me put an example to you_, the shadow replied, and his inner voice, even existing as words without sounds, seemed weary, unwell. _If you spoke through a broadcasting frequency throughout the ship, but you yourself were sealed in a soundproofed booth with no receiver array, would you hear the people answer you?  
_   
Reed hesitated, not liking the answer he was given, but understanding it perfectly. _So I can't read your thoughts. I'm broadcasting, not receiving. And you . . .   
_   
The Dark Man half-nodded, half-bowed once more. _You're quick on the uptake. That's one of the reasons they, and consequently I, chose you.  
_   
_Only one of the reasons? What were the others?   
_   
_Your secrecy. You keep things to yourself; you don't like to talk about the little problems that trouble you. Secrecy is also important to me. To all of us. It's why I'm here. _  
  
_To stop the nanobots_, Reed ended, preempting the sales pitch before it could be reiterated. _Why? What's so special about them?_  
  
_That is one thing that secrecy' will not allow me to disclose. All I will tell you is that anonymity is our greatest protection. That is why—and please forgive me my somewhat brutal methods—I had to test you. You told nobody of these encounters, even as a child afraid of the storm. We are grateful for that.  
_   
Reed settled edgily on the bench against one wall, foreseeing a lengthy and potentially unenlightening lecture on the ethics of silence. _You keep saying we'. How many of you are there?_  
  
A sigh that manifested itself not as a vocalized breath but as a shudder shot through the Dark Man's gradually sagging body . . . and on the far side of the room, joined by the common threads of his mind, Reed felt the vibrations of it in his own bones.   
  
_Enough_, the Dark Man replied.  
  
_I can see I'm wasting my time.  
  
I am afraid so.  
_   
_So . . . what? You seem to have said very little using lots of words, and nothing I've heard has done a thing to explain to me why I should help you. _  
  
_No?_  
  
_No. Tell me what these nanobots are, why they're dangerous. If you won't tell me who you are, what you are, at least tell me that.  
_   
_And you will consider my request?_  
  
Reed stopped abruptly, trapped by his own careless words into committing either the one way or the other. _I'll consider it_, he conceded reluctantly.  
  
_You drive a hard bargain_. _My race prides concealment from others above all else, Malcolm Reed. I break millennia of tradition by telling you even this much. But I am of a faction that believes the time has come to make first contact with beings such as yourself_. There was a smile in the words, bitter, galling, and the Dark Man's pacing deepened, then slowed and halted.   
  
_Then make it. I'm listening._  
  
_We exist in a different plane than you, you humans. We exist across the five dimensions, Lieutenant. We are not constrained to the restrictions of length, height, breadth, and time. Even the fifth dimension is a breath of air to us. You might say our home' is the space between worlds, the shadowlands between life and death, waking and sleeping. You yourself have seen it.  
_   
Reed gulped, flinching at the phantom fingers of that emptiness reaching for him, recalling the instant of total panic when he stood on nothing, breathed nothing, when even his dream-heart seemed to stop in his chest and his dream-blood froze in his veins. Even now that vacuum did not seem far away, hovering on the edges of vision and the bounds of hearing, waiting to return. Reed looked about at the familiar walls and lights and saw only stage scenery, a thin barrier between he and the shadowlands behind. The name seemed morbidly accurate. _I remember.  
_   
_We have no physical body, Malcolm. That much should be plain to you by now. Our only means of communication is by the minds of the people we contact, the part of corporeal beings such as you which exists close to our own domain. You are closest to the shadowlands when you sleep, when your mind exists almost without your body.  
_   
That's why you used my dreams, Reed wondered, speaking the words aloud in surprise at the revelation. _But how . . . how did you visit me when I was six? You said that was real. You said you marked me the night of the storm._  
  
_We exist outside of time, Malcolm. We see what will come, and what has been, and everything in between. I simply chose that night as one you would remember, one where you might, perhaps, abandon that stiff upper lip of yours.  
_   
_But how did you visit me if you have no physical body? You're contradicting yourself, sir._  
  
The Dark Man laughed blackly at the formality. _Sir? I can always tell when you become uncomfortable, Lieutenant. You begin to act so formally.  
_   
_We're supposed to be talking about you, not me. How did you visit me? How did you mark me, put these alien cells' in me?   
_   
_We can manifest ourselves, for a time, using projections of ourselves. Similar to holograms, if you will, whose chemical reactions in human blood produces a sharp odor. You might have noticed it.   
_   
Yes, he had noticed it. It had hovered behind his senses long enough that he was beginning to take it for granted, like an aftershave whose imprint lasted the day and beyond. _Credit me with some intelligence, if you don't mind. The premise of matter to energy and energy to matter is the basis for most of the technology on this ship. But of course, you knew that.   
_   
_Of course.  
_   
Reed rose from the bench, feeling suddenly vulnerable seated. He could not help but think in three-dimensional terms, even here. And he wasn't about to apologize for that. _So what have these nanobots got to do with it?  
_   
_I've told you enough, Mr. Reed. _His own formality parodied, and none too kindly._ You'll see for yourself soon enough. Go. I'm tired of questions.  
_   
Reed opened his mouth to demand an explanation, vocally, loudly, overcome suddenly by an urge to assert his humanity and speak as such; but the thin paper-and-strut stage dressing of the decon chamber was already darkening, its waxy, ghosted walls stretching and melting like warm taffy. Ice needled into him at the brief kiss of shadow, clutching at him; and then, at his hand, there was a warmth, growing stronger, and he could feel the steady pound of his own heartbeat thumping through him.  
  
The real world, one he could touch, see, taste, hear, and smell. Except that, lingering beneath it all, he could still detect the sizzling scent of the alien cells, branded into his own like a tattoo on a slave.  
  
------------------------------  
  
He woke with an eagerness he had rarely felt at leaving sleep, anxious to be back. The warmth at his hand had become solid, sweaty fingers nervously grasping his own.  
  
Hoshi.  
  
Reed opened his eyes to the pleasant whiteness and perfect temperature of sickbay, blinking into the light that cast Hoshi's leaning shadow over him. Slowly, as his sight adjusted and the swarming sun spots in his eyes cleared, he saw that she was smiling. It looked thin and somehow stretched, a dam holding back water. He could see from the sooty trails cutting through the smoke and grime on her cheeks that she had been crying, and he wondered at it.  
  
Did . . . he attempted, rediscovering the taste of real, spoken words on his tongue. Did you just shoot me, Ensign?  
  
She laughed, weakly. Behind her, the captain, Commander Tucker and Doctor Phlox joined in with smiles of their own, Trip's broad enough to split his face. You're not angry with me . . . are you? Hoshi ventured, her eyes wide.  
  
I'd have been a lot angrier if you'd missed, he said.


	16. MORNING COFFEE

MORNING COFFEE  
  
The turnover from Delta Watch to Alpha had settled in that time, the lingering scents of blueberry pancakes, scrambled eggs, and fresh coffee dissipating in the corridors outside the mess hall. Trip inhaled deeply as he passed, hoping to capture the residue of morning smells mingling pleasantly in the tasteless recycled air. It made his stomach flip hungrily, and the bitter tint of the freshly brewed coffee drew him towards the open doors like a magnet tugging a bolt.  
  
He pulled himself up short. It had been a wearing night and the emotional drain of it had left him thirsty as a just-docked sailor heading for the nearest bar; but he had been dismissed from sickbay on captain's orders, and coffee, justifiable temptation though it was, would just have to wait. He reluctantly propelled himself past the mess hall and on towards T'Pol's quarters, dragging his feet in petulant resistance as a token rebellion. It was all very well for the captain, ordering him to go and find T'Pol. He didn't have to walk by that, _smell_ that, and say no. After so many ups and downs in the past hours his nerves were frayed; the enigmas and unanswered questions had not died with Malcolm, and had been revived nonetheless by his miraculous recovery . . . a recovery Trip still had difficulty swallowing, but could hardly deny.  
  
The corridors had emptied a little again, Delta Watch safely back in their quarters, and Alpha Watch—those of Alpha Watch not recently resurrected, missing, or on a wild goose chase—was safely back on duty. Trip hurried on to T'Pol's quarters, not so much hastening _toward_ his destination as _away_ from the coffee smell, and away from the temptation.  
  
The doors were open when he arrived, something he had not logically' expected—if she had work elsewhere on the ship then she would seal her quarters, in true, private Vulcan form, and if she was under the weather, something perhaps not so Vulcan in nature, then that private mentality would want to keep people out. T'Pol was never willing to show weakness, or share strengths.  
  
he called, hesitating at the threshold.   
  
There was no answer, and that was even stranger; of the two options, he would be more inclined to believe she might leave her door open when she was inside than when her quarters stood unattended. He ventured inside a step, one level of his sleep-deprived brain registering the differences in the room, the other, unconscious level glossing them over and pressing them back into the organized environment he had expected to find. What his first glance saw did not fit into T'Pol's boxhedge-neat rigidity, and there was a faint odor, not the fine mist of charcoal and melted wax her meditation candles and incense burners produced, but the sweeter, richer, more complex scents of food. Not one food, one smell, but many.  
  
he repeated, more cautiously this time.   
  
He took a second step, and put his foot blindly into something that clattered and shifted its balance as his weight bore down on it.  
  
A bowl.  
  
Trip bent and retrieved it from the floor, casting an incredulous eye around the dried residue of ice cream crusted at its rim, his nose taking in the stronger signatures of chocolate and rum-raisin rising from it; and in an instant, the half-ignored differences to the room which he had partly assimilated and otherwise rejected clicked into place. He raised his eyes from the bowl, and saw that dishes were strewn across every available surface—empty dishes, unfinished dishes. He could not vouch for the others, but this ice cream looked to be at least a day old, and the volume would suggest a problem extending farther back even than that.  
  
What the . . ? he tried to articulate, but the thought vanished into smoke, a kindling spark with no wood to burn. He set the bowl down where he had found it, and came fully into the room. T'Pol, you here?  
  
A stupid question, but it was all he could think of to say. All pretense aside it was plain that she was not.  
  
Would ya get a look at this? he muttered, pausing to examine several more of the dishes as he worked through the room's clutter. Best engineer they got in Starfleet and what am I doin'? Babysittin' a binge-eatin' Vulcan.  
  
He dropped the last of a collection of toast crusts with peanut butter onto the table, watching them skid to a halt among the half-strangled arrangement of candles and incense burners there, and his gaze was naturally drawn to a larger, taller object at its center—a pot of steaming black coffee, beside an empty cup. A few dregs of syrupy dark liquid clung to the base of the cup, but the pot was still mostly full, and Trip was reminded once again of his sudden need for coffee. Surely T'Pol wouldn't mind . . .   
  
But no. This couldn't be coffee. T'Pol herself had told him, on numerous occasions, that caffeine had very little effect on Vulcan physiology. This must be some kind of Vulcan tea that looked, smelled, and _steamed_ like coffee, but wasn't.   
  
Maybe he could just try a bit, anyhow.   
  
He lifted the pot, flipped up the swivel lid on the spout, and inhaled, deeply. The sharp, burnt tang hit him between the eyes, and he lowered it again, convinced. This was the strongest, and blackest, expresso the mess hall served. And T'Pol, it appeared, had been drinking it, or else had entertained a nocturnal visitor who drank it.   
  
Trip took the cup over to her sink and washed it out, rinsing away the cloying syrup drying on the rim and base, and returned to the table. Her candles and burners looked like flowers amid the clutter, choked by weeds.   
  
He poured a cup and took a mouthful with great relish, wondering if this kind of coffee theft would earn him one of her stares, and what degree of stare it would be. He had had a little game going with Lieutenant Reed recently; they vied with each other to earn the most killing, chilling stare from the science officer.   
  
Trip drew the liquid into his mouth and then stopped, dead. This wasn't coffee. Well, yes, it was, but this was a kind of coffee that only sugar junkies and children ever drank—it was almost pure, unadulterated sugar. It would kill a diabetic outright and make a diabetic of anybody that wasn't.  
  
Face scrunched painfully against the evil taste still held in his mouth, Trip reached blindly for the cup he had set down, and in his haste knocked it flying across the tabletop. Coffee splattered over the dishes and candles and dripped raggedly into the deck, striking musical notes from a spoon directly in line to catch the falling drops. The cup rolled, trembled at the table's edge, and shattered on the floor.  
  
Trip groaned with his mouth full, desperate to rid himself of the sickening taste, unable to make himself swallow it. He imagined the glide of it down his throat, and shuddered. No. He couldn't.  
  
His eyes skimmed the clutter for the nearest receptacle to hand, anything that would afford him an opportunity to off-load it . . . and then, cringing, he leant forward and spat the coffee into the well of the nearest oil burner.   
  
Sorry, T'Pol, he shrugged, to himself. Guess if caffeine doesn't do it for ya, sugar's the next best thing.  
  
--------------------------------  
  
The mess hall had emptied in that fifteen minutes or so, and only the final two or three of Delta Watch that had opted for a light snack before turning in were left, occupying the furthest window seats, watching the swooping black expanse outside. The stars sleeted by lazily outside the viewports, oblivious to the panic that had torn through the ship in the last few hours. It was peaceful, and the handful of crewmembers loitering over drinks looked as much—but the one crewmember Trip had hoped to find was not among them.  
  
A steaming cup was thrust under his nose abruptly, and a bright, female voice trilled: Coffee, Commander?  
  
Trip swept aside the tempting offering, sparing it a covetous glance, and spun to see Ensign Cutler beaming uncertainly at him. She still held the coffee cup aloft, and the smile was alert, brilliant; but fake. Wish I had the time, Ensign. He tried to return the smile, but the effort seemed to crack his face muscles like clay left out all day in the baking sun, and he let it collapse back again, too tired to pretend. You don't happen to have seen Subcommander T'Pol, by any chance, have ya?  
  
Liz Cutler lowered the coffee cup, and shrugged. I saw her about a half hour ago. She was rushing off someplace, I assumed she had work to do. She paused, rolling her bottom lip idly between her teeth. Although . . .  
  
Trip caught the off-kilter spark beneath the dwindling smile, and pounced on it, almost as greedily as he had pounced on T'Pol's coffee. What? Was she actin' strange, did she speak to ya?  
  
Liz shuffled her feet. She wasn't quite herself, Commander. She didn't talk to anybody, which isn't anything unusual, but she . . .  
  
What? Spit it out, Ensign. He winced at his own unfortunate choice of words.  
  
Liz raised her eyebrows apologetically. She got coffee, she said.  
  
No kiddin'. Trip tried not to let the obvious explanation forward, not liking where it led—but it was a fact. The open doors, the dishes, the coffee . . . dereliction of duty . . . and it all added up to the same.   
  
T'Pol was acting as out of character as Lieutenant Reed had been.  
  
I couldn't help but . . . well, I heard a few things from Delta Watch. Liz's smile had vanished completely now. Is it true about Lieutenant Reed?  
  
Trip attempted the smile again, benignly forcing it forward to put her at ease. The rumors are wildly exaggerated, Ensign, he replied. Lieutenant Reed took a bit of damage in engineering, but he's fine and dandy in sickbay right now. Spread the word. Last thing I want is for Malcolm to hear people tell him he's s'posed to be dead.  
  
Liz laughed uncertainly, and the smile peeped back through more genuinely this time. So . . . did you want this coffee? she offered, once more. I have to get to my station, and . . . well, no offense Commander, but you look like you need it.  
  
Trip glanced down at the hot cup pressing insistently against the back of his hand, and smiled, finally without effort. Thanks, Ensign. I'll take it with me. This doesn't have sugar in it, does it?  
  
No, why?  
  
Nuthin'. Just a question. He turned to leave, but twisted round again as a new thought struck him. She didn't say where she was goin', did she?  
  
Liz shrugged again.   
  
Then I guess I'll just have to find her the hard way.  
  
What way's that, Commander?  
  
  
  
--------------------------------  
  
Trip hesitated at the mouth of the access tunnel, hands gripping the rim of the opening tightly, arms braced. His first experiments with this bizarre corner of the ship had been less than successful, and in the months since their hasty launch, he had avoided traveling this way; but he wished, now, that he had practiced pushing off from the entrance and righting his orientation a little more.  
  
Ensign Cutler had only confirmed his suspicions; Subcommander T'Pol was not herself, and simply walking between her regular haunts would not likely help him find her. So he had scanned the ship for Vulcan lifesigns, and the sensor readings had led him here. To the sweet spot'.  
  
He had stifled his surprise and headed to the point, halfway between the gravity generator and the valve plate, where the gravitational field briefly reversed, but now that he reached the entrance tube the simple task of locating T'Pol had suddenly become far from simple. If she were really unbalanced, then what, exactly, did he intend to say to her? If her odd behavior were in any way linked to Reed's, then he had to be prepared for anything.  
  
Trip shifted his grip, took a deep breath, and pushed off from the ladder. For a moment the upright gravity held him, weighting him like concrete boots; then the thread connecting him to the tube snapped, and he felt the reverse gravity take hold, pulling him to a ceiling now becoming a floor. He went with it, heart suspended for a beat as for an instant _he_ was suspended between the two, before he slammed against the far bulkhead, and the reverse gravity anchored him securely.  
  
He had cursed aloud before he opened his eyes and took in his new surroundings, and the first thing he saw was T'Pol, sitting with divine composure beside him, one eye pried open to take him in with utter disdain. Her spine was mast-straight and her fingers were laced decorously in her lap.  
  
Embarrassed that she had witnessed his ungainly entrance, Trip grinned uneasily, and scrambled to sit upright. You make a habit of sittin' ears over space boots, Subcommander?  
  
T'Pol's glare cut through him with effortless ease. That stare, Trip thought triumphantly, had to be the winner. _Too bad, Lieutenant_.   
  
She refused to move or allow his arrival to disturb her in any discernible way, and the eye closed again, veiling that fatal dark stare. It could be argued that from my point of view, it is the rest of the crew that is currently ears over space boots', she stated, coldly. Same old precise T'Pol in every annoying way.  
  
Wish I had my camera. I'd just love a picture of you upside down. What ya doin' up here?  
  
I am . . . meditating.  
  
Meditatin'? This early?  
  
The hint of derision buried within his surprise made her turn her head, and both heavy-lidded eyes opened to fix a glare on him that made every other pale by comparison. I admit I have not been feeling quite myself.  
  
Sugar rush'll do that to ya.  
  
I'm sorry, Commander, were you speaking to me?  
  
If ya want. What's with the midnight feast?  
  
T'Pol turned away again, eyes slipping closed, and returned to her meditating. You have been in my quarters, she accused. There was a hard edge beneath the control which he did not like.  
  
Well, ya didn't respond to a tactical alert, T'Pol. That isn't normal. Didn't you hear the alarms?  
  
I was busy . . .  
  
Meditatin'. I got it. Trip fell back, seeing this line of questioning was apt to go round in circles, and lead nowhere but a dead end. She seemed quasi-normal, and that had thrown him more than a little off-balance; for a moment there he had almost dismissed his concerns as overreaction. After all, from what he had grudgingly learned of Vulcans, they had weird biological cycles and the like—her overindulgence may be nothing more alarming than scheduled Vulcan munchies.  
  
But there was that accusation, and its latent threat. That, however he twisted it, was far from normal. Did ya discover the meanin' of the universe yet?  
  
My attempts to understand the universe' by meditation are more logical than seeking enlightenment at the bottom of a whisky glass, as I understand humans often have the custom.  
  
  
  
T'Pol ignored his blithe comment, and continued: For your information, my meditation was not a philosophical exercise, but a means of maintaining serenity.  
  
Trip nodded, humoring her. And being upside down helps, does it?'  
  
Do you have a purpose here, Commander, or are you merely amusing yourself at my expense?  
  
No. Apparently I'm wastin' my time, Trip growled, and made to push off from the ceiling and drift back to the upright safety of the access tunnel. A firm hand at his arm, insistent and sharp-clawed, prevented him.  
  
Where do you think you're going, Commander? she purred, and her voice had dipped low, swooping to a smooth husk.  
  
Trip swung round against the determined hand and found T'Pol's face close to his, her blacker-than-black eyes studying him meticulously, her gaze following his nuances of expression as a host of them flickered uncertainly across his face. You feelin' okay? he asked, nervously.  
  
T'Pol's fingers tightened like a vice around his arm, her Vulcan strength restraining him harshly enough to hurt. Why don't you stay and find out? she whispered. A familiar scent danced lightly on his nerves, but too faint and far away to place, tainted by the copper essence of her Vulcan flesh.  
  
Trip reared his head back, searching her face, feeling a bolt of stark panic at the unmatchable strength that held him. She was Vulcan, and although smaller than him, she was also stronger. Her eyes had dilated, become black holes drawing him towards them; a stronger gravity, even, than that at either end of this upside-down room. He went, unwillingly, but almost helplessly . . . and pulled back at the touch of her unnaturally cold breath again.  
  
I'm gettin' you to sickbay, he muttered, and kicked off from the ceiling, the sudden thrust bringing her with him. They spun out into the center of the gravity well, floating unsteadily, and still holding tight to each other, caught in the liquid freedom of zero-g. The fire in T'Pol's fixed eyes flickered darkly.   
  
Careful, Commander, she trilled, softly. We wouldn't want you to have an accident.  
  
Trip reached with both weightless hands and grasped her elbows, snapping her body close to him, her face only a breath away from his. Their stares crossed swords, guardedly. Is that a threat, Subcommander? he demanded, quietly.  
  
Are you pushing me to make a threat?  
  
I'm pushing you straight to see Doctor Phlox, T'Pol.  
  
T'Pol pressed closer, closer, her nose almost touching his. You'll have to catch me first, she whispered.  
  
And kicked him.  
  
--------------------------------  
  
Trip yelled at the blow, but kept firm hold, pulling her struggling elbows in to him, clamping her arms with his own. She glared and rattled off a stream of garbled Vulcan, kicking at his shins.  
  
Listen, darlin', I don't wanna have to knock you out, but you're not leaving me much choice. Now quit . . . kickin' . . . me!  
  
T'Pol went abruptly limp in his hold, eyes wide, chin high, nostrils flaring fastidiously. There was such utter, _emotional_ defiance there that Trip was taken aback, and despite his rising impatience he felt a little bad for being so rough with her. Her brittle dignity was fragile, a thin plaster cast over swarming, heated depths he had never seen in her before.  
  
he said, more kindly, that's more like it. Phlox'll have y'all better in no time.  
  
T'Pol continued to glare, nakedly hostile—and then gradually an indulgent smile curled her pouting lips upward.  
  
An actual, physical smile.  
  
Then she made her move. She braced her feet against his shins, her hands around his arms, and kicked. She flipped over his head, hauling her body weight up and forward. The two went into a free spin, tangled body and limb, and as the floor and ceiling revolved, Trip lost his grip on T'Pol's elbows.  
  
He heard her laugh, the alien sound cutting through him like a knife between the ribs, lost somewhere in the confusion.  
  
he called, as he slammed against a bulkhead, and groped for a handhold to right himself. She was nowhere to be seen.  
  
Trip rubbed at his raw shins with his free hand, and looked around the empty space, perplexed. He had had no idea she would be so volatile—it was the one trait Malcolm had not, as of yet, displayed. But this blank-eyed distance . . . that sounded familiar.  
  
A movement caught his attention at the corner of his eye, and he twisted, on reflex . . . and snatched T'Pol's hand by the wrist as it crept for his neck.   
  
She made a startled, strangled sound in her throat, caught off-guard, and Trip twisted the arm he held aside, pulled her in to him roughly, and trapped her other arm under his. No longer braced against the bulkhead, they were thrown into the center of the zero gravity bubble, hovering between up and down, left and right, not sure which way was which.  
  
Quit tryin' your little Vulcan tricks on me, he warned. T'Pol's composed ferocity seemed to burn through their uniforms, her jaw locked into silence. It won't work.  
  
Are you sure about that? she soothed. She tilted her head, eyelids lowered, brows arched, watching him guilelessly from beneath them. Trip set his shoulders, unimpressed by her play.  
  
I'm pretty sure you don't know what you're sayin', he replied.  
  
You're hurting me. I'm sure about that.  
  
Trip scoured her face, searching for the lie, seeing none. Her lip trembled, and her breathing continued to drag, pained, offended. He slowly slackened his hold, daring her with his eyes to take advantage of his generosity, and she relaxed a little.  
  
Thank you, she said.  
  
That's all right. But I'm not lettin go, so don't ask me. I'm under captain's orders to find you.  
  
You found me. I'm . . . sorry, I . . . don't feel . . . quite myself.  
  
Her head sagged forward a little, drooping in sudden unguarded listlessness. Her taut arms went slack, like cooked spaghetti in his hands. Trip looked down at her bowed head, suddenly ashamed at manhandling her, and sighed. It looked like this long night was far from over.  
  
Ah, that's okay, he conceded, squirming a little. He froze as T'Pol shrank closer into his arms, resting her heavy head on his shoulder, her face turned into his uniform. He released her captured wrist, gently, and wrapped his arm around her waist, bracing her steady against the disruptive pull of the sweet spot. Don't worry about it.  
  
When it happened, it happened fast; in a split second, too fast for Trip to see, her hand shot for his neck . . . and a thin, red-white phase beam struck her square between her padded shoulders. She fell, deadweight and unconscious, in his supporting arms.  
  
Trip glanced over her at the access tunnel, having to twist his head the right way up to see who held the phase pistol. Captain Archer leaned half-in, half-out of the tube, phase pistol in hand.  
  
That thing's set to stun, right? Trip asked.  
  
Archer gave only a watery smile in return.  
  



	17. BABEL, PART ONE

BABEL, PART ONE  
  
Reed fretted over the handcuffs binding him, urging the metal from the skin where they chafed. A fine, raw welt had risen at the base of his palm, threading around his wrist, a line scored in the flesh that itched and maddened more than hurt, but would not be satiated. Prying the cuff away was akin to shutting the stable door after the horse had bolted, as his mother had always been so fond of saying. Better to leave them be, to give up tugging and twisting his manacled hand, and grit his teeth against the inconvenience. Better, ha-ha, to take it lying down.   
  
Truthfully, though he had not exactly earned this, he _had_ brought it on himself.   
  
The energy which had made his every nerve sing since he woke in sickbay to Hoshi's startling concern had not faded, but remained simmering under his skin like oil crisping bacon in a pan. His lack of sleep had not seemed to drain him in the way it drained the others, especially Hoshi, and he was as alert now as ever he had been after eight hours of unbroken sleep. He was bright, buzzing, in spite of his only rest that night being a tormented kaleidoscope of half-forgotten memories and mind games of the highest degree. But as was his duty, security measures he himself imposed prevented him from putting that energy to practical use.  
  
Reed pulled petulantly at the cuff restraining his left wrist, and fell back on the bunk, dissecting the shadows above him. Like it or not, the captain had ordered they rest before any final decisions were made, and he was duty-bound to submit to this indignity, tired or not, instead of spending those hours at his post where he could be guarded by eye. But holy translators, was it boring.  
  
Of them all, Hoshi had been the most in need of these hours of grace. The disarrayed head propped in her hands as they waited for the return of Commander Tucker and the captain in sickbay had been sagging pitifully with exhaustion. Her first yawn, nevertheless concealed valiantly in her cupped palms, had prompted him to lean forward from the biobed and touch her shoulder, briefly, catching her attention.  
  
he had murmured, mindful of too abruptly breaking sickbay's hush.  
  
She had raised her head at the nudge, and assured him that she was okay, but he had been unconvinced. He couldn't help but wonder now, a little belatedly, at her willingness to stay—but at the time, he had been too grateful to outwardly question. She would be enjoying some well-deserved sleep in her quarters now, he reflected . . . except that he knew her better than that. Perhaps he would not be so far from the truth if he imagined her awake, warding off sleep with strong black coffee, pouring over the data from the sampled nanobots. Completing the task he had unfairly asked her to do.  
  
Whoever and whatever this Dark Man, this Shade, proved to be, he surely must intend for them to unravel the true nature of the nanobots; otherwise he would never have guided Reed in removing this sample for Hoshi to study. But that was one incident, one token of help in contrast to several of ambiguous hindrance, and he wasn't ready, quite yet, to trust him.   
  
There was still so much they didn't know. And after what had happened earlier, he was not sure he wanted to know . . .   
  
In the half hour after he woke to the welcoming lights of sickbay, Reed had almost wished he could have stayed dead a little longer. Once Trip and the captain left to track down T'Pol, the second concerned at the lengthy absence of the first, Reed had been scanned, tested, and prodded in ways undreamed of in his secular philosophy. Phlox had then retired to a corner to mutter and shake a fluffy-haired head over the incomprehensible readings, leaving Reed and Hoshi alone. As far as Phlox was able to ascertain, Reed had never been in better physical health. And he must admit, he felt better than he had in years; revitalized, as if every cell in his body had simultaneously regenerated.  
  
Hoshi had turned a sallow clay gray in that half hour, the cream-coffee tones of her skin wan in the unkind lights—but every effort he made to urge her to go and get some rest had been met with stout refusal, and an attempt to straighten in her seat, feigning alertness, jutting a resistant lip at him.  
  
I'm okay, she had replied, pouting ever so lightly in her determination to live up to the lie. I just need some strong coffee, that's all.  
  
Nothing wrong with a good cup of tea, if you ask me, Reed muttered, to himself. Hoshi looked sidelong at him, dark eyes flashing with revived humor, and shot him one of her more impatient, disbelieving smiles. Reed raised his hands palm outward in placation, and she softened the satirical edge to the smile with a shake of her head.  
  
Why don't you at least do that? he had pressed her. The captain didn't order you to wait here. Go and freshen up, get some . . . coffee.  
  
I'm okay. But I want to know what's going on, and I won't find out in the mess hall or in my quarters. She huffed, and swept her tangled hair back in her palms. Reed, always a little reticent of personal contact and especially nervous, tonight, of Hoshi's fragility, had not liked to tell her as much—but judging by the bruised rings shadowing her eyes, he doubted she would remain awake so long. He could have told her his full story then and spared her the wait, let her further into his confidence . . . but he believed then, and still believed now, that the captain should be the first to hear all he had to tell.  
  
He might have known it would not turn out to be so easy for him as that.  
  
He had tried not to express his surprise—and worse, the part of him that was anything but surprised—when the captain and Commander Tucker returned, carrying an unconscious T'Pol between them.  
  
Looks like I missed something, sir, Reed ventured. The sight of the unmoving Vulcan troubled him far more personally than it should, as if he should know the answer, but had mislaid it.  
  
That'll teach you to pretend you're dead, Archer returned, as he and Trip hauled her seemingly boneless body onto the biobed beside his.  
  
Hoshi gravitated a little towards the group, skin now insipid under the reflective lights as she took in the sight of T'Pol. As the others stared silently at the inert Vulcan, Reed was captivated, morbidly, by Hoshi's shocked face. She had never responded this way to merely unconscious people before . . . and he realized, with wistful gravity, that it had been his own near death which caused her to pale now.   
  
She thought the same thing might have happened to T'Pol. And none of them could say for sure that she was wrong.   
  
Is she . . ? Hoshi halted beside the biobed, eyes fixed rigidly on T'Pol. I mean, is she . . .  
  
Reed picked up the remainder of the question and asked it for her, seeing she was coming unhinged. As well she might, after all this. What happened, sir?  
  
Maybe Trip can tell it better than me. I only joined the show during the final act, Archer replied grimly.  
  
Wish I could, Cap'n. All I can tell ya is if she ever invites you for coffee, my advice is decline. Politely. Trip shook his head, puzzled. I tried her quarters; nuthin' there but evidence she'd had a bad case o' the munchies during the night. Ensign Cutler said she saw her get coffee, told me T'Pol was actin' weird. I finally tracked her down in one of the access tunnels and she kinda went for me. That's when you dropped by with the phase pistol, Cap'n.  
  
Archer had nodded, seemingly acceptant of the stripped bones of the story for the time being, but Reed pricked an ear helplessly; not at the information he was told, but at the suggestion of things they were not being told. It was too sanitized, too undramatic, too _boring_ for the usually colorful commander, and Trip was at pains not to look at any of them but the subcommander as he spoke. Whatever it was Trip concealed, he was sure T'Pol would appreciate it.  
  
_Looks like I'm not the only one who knows how to keep a secret_, he thought, but, as apparently he had a reputation for, did not say.   
  
-------------------------------  
  
That had been three hours ago, and as there had been no news, Reed chose to assume T'Pol had not yet awoke, and was in no better or worse a condition than when they left sickbay—alive, but completely unresponsive to any attempts at waking her. He supposed he should find that comforting, considering the suspicions he had of the incident, but he could find nothing to be enthusiastic about.   
  
Of course, overt enthusiasm had never been his strong suit.   
  
It was too great a coincidence. That Subcommander T'Pol should show signs of unusual behavior now, after his own less than normal attempts to sabotage the warp reactor and his even less normal brush with death, was certainly not accidental.   
  
Whatever was affecting him was affecting her. The Dark Man? No, he didn't think so. If there was one individual on _Enterprise_ more capable of keeping a secret than he, it was T'Pol—and if the Dark Man had chosen instead to use him, then it must be due to some incompatibility on her part. Hadn't the two on Devoli V mentioned a problem with copper-based blood, in terms of the nanobots? Perhaps copper was as much a threat to the alien cells as to the nanobots. Which may also help explain, in some way, the differences between his own behavior and T'Pol's.   
  
Reed attempted to turn onto his side, stiff with lying still for three hours in his bunk; but his sore wrist caught at the turn, and the cuff prevented him. He rolled submissively onto his back again, staring into the shadows twisting in the black over him, and sighed. It was going to be a long day, to rival the long night just passed. He could foresee every day for some considerable time would be long, arduous, and tainted by distrust. Because there was a certain, tentative distrust surrounding him now, whether his crewmates said as much or not—they were afraid, not of him, but of whatever it was that lurked beneath his skin. To them, the nanobots . . . to him, the Dark Man. Yes, the nanobots were there; but he did not attribute any of what had happened to them. They were inanimate, carriers of information and nothing more, and unable to exert any influence over him.  
  
So he believed, and so he would until there was more evidence to base his conclusions on. But the captain, and the others, had not been party to the same information that he was . . . and he had been unable to convince them . . .   
  
-------------------------------  
  
Trip had volunteered to stay with T'Pol as Phlox attempted to treat her, and relate as much information concerning her behavior as the doctor required—but Reed had had an idea, one he kept firmly to himself, that the commander would do no such thing. There was a story buried within the bones of the report that would remain buried, and never see the light of day again.  
  
As he himself had so nearly never seen light, any light, again.  
  
It had taken a direct order from the captain before Hoshi would consent to leave, and freshen up if she would not sleep. She had stumbled from sickbay like a drugged mole, blind to the things, like doors, which reared up and crashed into her on the way. The captain had then invited Reed to his ready room, understandably wanting privacy to debrief the entangled events of the night, and make some kind of sense of them. Reed's suspicions had already begun to take shape, even so soon after, and he had complied with the request having every intention of filling the captain in—on _everything_.   
  
Of course, those intentions had ended at a dead end.  
  
Archer had offered Reed a seat, but he had declined, busting with energy then as now. He could tell, straightaway, that the captain was agitated—perhaps even on the verge of anger—but he had also known that neither the agitation nor the anger was directed towards him.   
  
I was just speaking with Sparek at the institute, Archer said, already beginning to pace across the length of the low-lit ready room. Reed had tried, none too successfully, not to notice the pale scuff of wear already visible on the trodden deck plates. You remember Sparek?  
  
How could I forget, sir, Reed replied dryly.  
  
Archer had smiled politely, but there had been no real humor in it. Of course. Well, I have to admit I wasn't particularly polite to him—whatever he's injected into you has hardly helped this mission go according to plan—and he claimed he'd never met us at VISAC.  
  
Reed was a little ashamed of his reaction at that point; he had let his mouth drop open like a panting dog. Are . . . are you sure, sir? I mean . . . could he have been mistaken?  
  
Have you ever seen a Vulcan make a statement they can't back up? There are only two possible explanations, and I can't say I like either of them. There's a chance that Sparek's lying. Or—and I really don't like to say it—the two individuals we contacted at Devoli V may have been impostors. The entire institute might have been a fake. I wanted to know what your take on this was.  
  
_(All I can tell you is that they're not what you think they are)_  
  
The words came back to him, amplified by the captain's expectant gaze, urging a response from him that Reed didn't know he had to give. The Dark Man had warned him . . . he had said that none of this mission was what they thought it was. Maybe that extended to the individuals that had asked it of them, as well as the nanobots involved.  
  
_(I am of a faction that believes the time has come to make first contact with beings such as yourself)_  
  
Maybe they _had_ been impostors. Maybe the two Vulcans, as alluded, were of the Dark Man's own race. Holograms, impersonating Sparek and T'lau. Maybe _they_ were the opposing faction, determined to keep their existence secret at all cost.   
  
And maybe the Dark Man was telling the truth after all.  
  
I think you're onto something there, sir, he began, testing the words in his mouth before he allowed them to leave it. We know that, if they're not lying, whoever or whatever impersonated them must be either a race of shapeshifters or else have some fantastic technology to do the job for them. I didn't tell you this before, Captain . . . I didn't know how relevant it was . . . but . . . He trailed away, hardly knowing where to begin, what to tell, what to leave behind. What was his own need for closure pushing its way to the fore and what was information relevant to the situation.   
  
Archer had pricked up his ears, intrigued. You have some light to shed on this, Lieutenant?  
  
Reed had nodded, awkwardly. He had been unable to focus on the captain's intent face, and had studied that worn groove in the floor, the dulled polish in that so oft-paced line. Yes, sir. I . . .  
  
He stopped, a sudden tickle catching in the back of his throat, halting the word.   
  
You all right, Malcolm? Archer asked, his low brow furrowing. I could get you some water . . .  
  
Reed coughed, clearing away the gravel lodged in his windpipe, and straightened up. No, sir, I'm fine. Thank you.  
  
Now: you were saying?  
  
Well, sir, I . . . It came again, a cheesegrater dragging across the back of his throat, a host of dry spikes fencing back the rest of the sentence. His eyes watered. The invasive sensation squealed like nails on a chalkboard. He tried to continue past it, and descended into a deep, wrenching cough.   
  
Hold still, I'll get you a drink, Archer had flustered, gesturing that Reed remain where he was in a wave of his hand.   
  
Reed returned the gesture, halting the captain with a peremptory palm. He coughed, once, cleared his throat, and experimentally flexed his jaw. It's all right, sir. Don't know what came over me.  
  
But he _had_ known. It was no thought of his, but it circled, scraping at the inside of his skull, with a drone like a trapped bluebottle thumping against a window pane.   
  
_(You keep things to yourself, you don't like to talk about the little problems that trouble you. Secrecy is also important to me)_  
  
It was him. The Dark Man was doing this to him. That gutting cough had surfaced only when he attempted to tell the captain about his dreams, about his knowledge . . . about the Dark Man himself.  
  
Listen, I shouldn't have asked you up here so soon after . . . whatever it was that happened in sickbay. I've ordered Hoshi to go get some rest. Why don't you join her? Archer said.  
  
Malcolm had tried to suppress his laughter, every order he had ever received not to laugh at a superior officer reining the instinct back. But it was difficult. The thought of him arriving in Hoshi's quarters, and what was worse, climbing blithely into her bunk, was just _too_ delicious—and wicked—a thought. But then he remembered . . .   
  
. . . he had already done just that, only last night.   
  
That's not what I meant, Archer amended hastily. I mean . . .  
  
Reed smiled, warmed at the beautifully devilish joke, faintly disturbed at the near brush of truth in it. I know what you mean, sir. But . . . Captain, I might have to ask you . . . I mean, it's hardly safe to let me sleepwalk again.  
  
I've thought of that. If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to security-lock your quarters, and ideally I'd like to keep you in some sort of a restraint inside, as well. And don't look at me like that.  
  
Like what, sir? Reed inquired, innocently.   
  
Like I'm Captain Bligh and you're Fletcher Christian. It's not something I'd choose to do, it's just . . .  
  
Protocol. I know that book better than you, sir, if you don't mind my saying so.  
  
Archer had returned the smile, the tension in his shoulders giving a little at last. I don't doubt it for a minute.


	18. BABEL, PART TWO

BABEL, PART TWO  
  
Reed was beckoned from a daze always modestly shy of true sleep by the whistle of his communicator, invading his cautious rest. A part of his wakefulness was his energy and the myriad of seemingly isolated thoughts stitched by invisible threads he could not trace; but more than half was his own reluctance to descend too deep. To meet the Dark Man again, after his . . . indiscretion. To open his mind to any further intrusion. In the three hours since the captain unwillingly fastened the handcuffs and sealed him in this room, he had been held back from sleep with the Reed stubbornness he had been working all too hard to overcome, before today.   
  
The call to duty, as he imagined this communication must be, was a much-appreciated wake up call. Also, in its way, an opportunity to take his stand for his ship by means of resuming active duty.  
  
It was Hoshi's voice, blurred with sleepiness, but taut with unspoken nerves. The uncertain tone made his heart plummet into the pit of his stomach like a hurtling lift. Malcolm, are you awake?  
  
he replied, to be contrary—but he was secretly heartened to hear a friendly voice breaking his boredom. Why are _you_ awake, Ensign? he returned, slyly. Didn't the captain order you to get some rest?  
  
There was a trace of static over the com line, but nothing else for a long minute. Reed smiled in spite of himself; he had the knack of making her nervous when he used the words Ensign' and order' in the same sentence. He had allowed himself the habit for the sake of being facetious from time to time.  
  
I had something to do, she replied, evasively.   
  
Yes, it's called Reed shot back.  
  
Something else. Decrypting those nanobots you gave me, if you must know.  
  
Reed sighed, hearing the tentative eagerness and . . . hope . . . in her voice, and feeling it stab at him like broken glass. Because, beneath that glimmer of wavering optimism, her weariness weighted her usually perfect diction into a grim stubbornness reminiscent of his own. And already he was filled with a sense of predestinate failure on her behalf, anticipating inevitable disappointment.  
  
You've done enough already, Hoshi, he said, softly, closing his eyes as if to blot out the memory of the unfair order he had given her in engineering. He supposed he would never have the courage to ask her why she had cried for him, when he had made only perfunctory efforts to get to know her as a friend would.  
  
I know, she replied, abruptly. That's why I had to do this.  
  
I ordered you to shoot, Ensign. Don't blame yourself.   
  
No, you didn't. You asked me, _Lieutenant._ I did it because you're my friend.  
  
Reed laughed, not immune to her subtle retaliation. I seem to remember somebody telling me that friends don't shoot friends.  
  
Sometimes they do.  
  
All right. What have you found?  
  
It's hard to say, sir. I thought I'd broken the encryption, but the moment the algorithm kicked in, the data . . . well, it _rescrambled_.  
  
Rescrambled? Is that a technical term, or are you just preoccupied with breakfast? he teased, gently. His gaze wandered idly across the far wall, lingering at the heavily framed mirror where he always combed his wilful hair into submission; dismissing, as he looked, the flash of errant black he thought he saw there.  
  
I'm serious, sir. The moment the encryption cleared it spontaneously re-encrypted itself using a completely different algorithm than the last one. It's happened three times, sir.'  
  
So you're saying the encryption can't be broken? His suspicions concerning the nanobots and their mysterious owners sharpened vividly with each passing moment. What could those Vulcan impostors have to hide? Is it something they don't want us to see?  
  
Well, every time it's asked for a pass code. I bypassed it. Maybe if we had the code the encryption sequence wouldn't begin a new cycle each time.  
  
That's a big maybe', Ensign, Reed mused. But you did your best. Did you inform the captain?  
  
I'm on my way now.  
  
Reed sensed the imminent termination of the conversation, choosing, for the moment, to ignore the fact she had elected to tell _him_ ahead of the captain—or perhaps gauge his reaction to it to report to the captain, more likely—and decided to take a calculated risk. If nothing else good had come from the previous night, then Hoshi had definitely proved herself trustworthy. Ensign, I have to say that what you've just told me doesn't come as much of a surprise. He hesitated, awaiting the silent hijack of a cough in his throat or a block in his windpipe . . . but the moment passed, the first words of confession dying on the still air, and nothing came to challenge his freedom of speech but his own reticence. Maybe his choking in the captain's ready room had been nothing more sinister than a coincidence, after all.  
  
Do you know something, Malcolm? Hoshi's voice was trembling; he could hear her stillness over the com. Her use of proper address dropped, and he noticed an odd pattern he had given little thought to, throughout the night; when their conversation had been casual, she used his name. His awful, stuffy, boring name. Only from Hoshi's lips, it didn't sound so bad. She used his name, something he had rarely heard her do before. He had never asked her to, perhaps shouldn't encourage her to; but she did, and he let her.  
  
he admitted, cautiously.   
  
Did you dream it?   
  
Yes and no. That experience—he supposed he would eventually have to accept it as a breed of near-death experience, but the inaccuracy of the term grated—had been _like_ a dream, partly lucid as before, partly arbitrary as any other dream . . . but still it had not been a dream.  
  
He had been in the shadowlands. Perhaps, quite literally, where no man has gone before.  
  
Malcolm, if you know something, then you should tell Captain Archer, Hoshi prodded, gently.  
  
I tried, Hoshi. But . . . He had been going to say but the Dark Man stopped me' instead, only a spiked tickle came, his tongue attempting to form words from sounds his throat failed to make. The mirror that had caught his attention once already tonight flickered with a drifting thread of black, like a column of ash rising from a blazing fire, but he hastily turned his gaze away. He coughed, abandoning that line of thought, and found that the words flowed again fluidly. You see what happens? Every time I try to tell what I know I lose my voice. If I try again, I choke. I know . . . but I'm afraid, Ensign, that I can't divulge more than that.  
  
Hoshi was speechless herself a moment, absorbing this unusual claim. So . . . she mused, if you come up with a plan to find out who those two at Devoli V were, and where the nanobots should go from here, then . . .  
  
Then you're going to have to trust me. All of you. Although I'm not sure the captain's as convinced as you are that I'm not imagining things, Reed interceded ruefully, and sparing a glance for the handcuffs. Do _you_ think I'm imagining things, Ensign?  
  
No. No, I don't think you're imagining things. You're not the type.  
  
He smiled, twisting a little coyly in his bunk. And are _you_ the type that often talks to men handcuffed to the bed, Hoshi?  
  
Wouldn't you like to know? she joked . . . and cut the link.  
  
----------------------------  
  
Hoshi watched the captain pace, her face half-taken by a smile of familiarity. The whitened mark on the deck plates ran across the immediate patch of floor opposite the doorway—the strip he trod most often.   
  
I don't like it, Hoshi, Archer said, sharply. Malcolm's obviously not himself, and now T'Pol's acting just as strange as he is. But I can't see the connection between them.  
  
No, sir, Hoshi agreed, absently. She was unable to shake Reed's odd confession from her mind, and it inevitably tainted the discussion she entered into now. Whatever the connection was, she was sure that the lieutenant knew of it . . . and for reasons he had been unable to disclose, could not say. But he's not sleeping in there. And I'm only sitting up worrying anyway, now that the encryption's turned out to be impossible to break. I'm sure it would be all right, just for a couple of hours.  
  
Usually I wouldn't hesitate, Hoshi. But I don't want you in any danger. Those Vulcans at VISAC—they warned me he might start hallucinating. That there may be side effects. Well, I don't like the side effects I've seen so far. He sighed, and his pacing slowed, and halted before her. Except that we don't even know they _were_ Vulcans.  
  
she agreed, eyeing the captain warily. Again, she felt certain that Reed knew as much, too . . . and may even have an idea who they really were. What the nanobots really were. After all . . . he had predicted this reaction in the captain easily enough. Captain, Malcolm told me that he . . . knew things. About what was happening to him. But he said that every time he tries to speak something stops him. The nanobots?  
  
All of this started when they came aboard. I think I'd have to agree with you. But what he knows and what he _thinks_ he knows are two different things. How do we know that he's not imagining things?  
  
We don't, Hoshi murmured; but secretly, she did. She believed him. Lieutenant Reed wasn't the type to give in to flights of fancy. She had an advantage the captain did not have; she had witnessed Reed in command, when the three senior officers were away from the ship, and responsibility for Starfleet's finest had fallen on his shoulders. She had seen that fire in his eyes, that spring in his step . . . and most of all, she had heard the striking vibrato in his voice, stronger, bolder, and certain of himself to a fault. He was no dreamer. But . . . has he ever been wrong?  
  
----------------------------  
  
He could feel it, crawling on his skin like oil that would not be absorbed, could see it, a fine film trapping sparks of pale light like lines of fire. But most of all, he could smell it rising from his pores, stronger and deeper than ever; that sugary fizz, as if he was lying in a pool of spilt battery acid.  
  
The Dark Man would visit him soon.  
  
Reed lie back on his bunk, the fingers of his left hand curling idly around the manacles, waiting. Now that the rush of the night was over and he found himself alone with time to contemplate, he discovered a paradox he hadn't expected. A part of him wanted to sleep, yearning for the routine that would come from it. An anger too hot to extinguish and a curiosity too thirsty to quench made him want answers the Dark Man could give only in his dreams—but still a part of him wanted to take advantage of this energy, and stay awake to spite him.  
  
The dimness cooled, and the steady hum of the engines sent gentle vibrations through the bunk beneath him, right hand splayed palm-down to absorb the thrum. Imaginary, of course; but the physical presence of the ship's living guts was a comforting one. Evidently, the damage he had done to engineering had only been superficial, and Lieutenant Hess had been busy since.  
  
He let his gaze wander about the room, alighting first on the large bronze mirror on the facing wall, secondly on the smaller item beside it—a painting of the _Enterprise_. The position of the two had been deliberate, and yet not; a Freudian decision, in a sense. The mirror had been a present from his father, so many years ago that he had eventually lost count. An officer at his best, it was said, is always well groomed. As a boy he had been encouraged to stand and comb his wild hair in front of that mirror for hours, sweeping each wiry strand where it belonged, forcing submission to a precept set years before in the history of Reed men. He kept that mirror, he supposed, as a reminder—a reminder that space, and Starfleet, was his decision, and that the stars had held their own unique allure; that of a fresh start, the opportunity to carve his own future.  
  
The painting was the reverse, a return strike against his father's distrust of Starfleet. A small gesture, and yet, perhaps, not so small.  
  
A movement caught his eye, stark, darting, caught at the edge of his peripheral vision; a flash of black, in the mirror. So he hadn't imagined it. Some manifestation of his unwanted visitor, like the tapping sounds in his shower, like the words in the steam, was surfacing in the glass. Be it all in his mind, or out of it.  
  
I can't say that you're scaring me, or whatever it is you hope to do this time, Reed said aloud, to the empty room. I fully intend to stay awake for as long as I can, and as I understand it, that will almost certainly damage your chances of holding a conversation with me.  
  
_Well, that's a shame,_ said a voice.  
  
It came from the mirror.  
  
----------------------------  
  
He trained hawkish eyes on the immaculate surface, searching for some disturbance in the room's dull reflections, waiting for an encore. It had been dark, that shape, fluttering like ravens' wings, an emptiness cut from normal space. Cut from the world as the shape in his most distant dreams had been, a nothing in familiar surroundings. A part of him did not want the Dark Man ever to contact him again, answers or no answers. Only a part of him did.  
  
The touch-tone beeping of somebody entering the security code in the door startled him from his rapt guard, and the door glided open with a swish like silk over water. Like the whisper of a coat about the Dark Man's legs.  
  
Malcolm twisted, yanking irritably at the cuff that prevented him from turning to see who entered. From where he lie, he could see nothing of the door.   
  
It's me, came a voice he had heard often throughout the night. Reed's eyes flickered to the mirror opposite and the clear reflection of Hoshi there, standing pale and hesitant behind him. Her hair was fixed but her eyes burned darkly in a net of fatigued shadows and worry lines.   
  
he breathed, in relief. Come in.  
  
The sound of soft footfalls crept up behind him, and he watched her reflection approach his and halt at his shoulder. Her fingers tangled in the chain of the handcuffs, considering them a moment.  
  
The captain said I could unlock these, she said, wistfully. He says if you have a guard sit up with you there's no need for them.  
  
Reed smiled indulgently, just a hint of a curve to his lips. He would never admit as much, but he was relieved beyond words at this unexpected company. And just who might that be, Ensign? You?  
  
She returned the smile, and as he watched it in his mirror it seemed to hide a thousand mysteries. Like he did. Why not? she said.


	19. SHADES

Finally FF.net has fixed whatever bug was stopping uploads to the site, so I'm hoping to post a chapter or two a day, at least, from now till the end. Hope that's all right?   
  
**Catspaw, **thank you for taking the moment to point out the difficulty you found in 16. Not many people do, you know. In this instance I'm fairly comfortable with the abruptness of T'Pol's transformation', shall we say, because a later related incident relies on just this same thing happening _suddenly_, again. Not necessarily T'Pol! And I hope that as we reach the explanations for it you'll be happy with it being so out of the blue. If I've done my job properly (bit hit and miss, that!) then it will make sense. If I haven't, please do let me know! I can't say any more without giving it all away, but yeah, ordinarily speaking, you'd be quite right. Enough of my chat, on with the story.  


  
SHADES  


  
Archer watched Hoshi leave, frowning at her back until the doors of his ready room swept closed behind her. If she was aware of his moroseness, then she made an admirable job of turning blind eyes and deaf ears, and did not hurry out.   
  
In the initial months of their mission, he had, he must admit, lost sleep over the suitability of the young ensign; he could not help but feel that he had no right to baptize an innocent by fire. Her lack of experience had been enough to make her a danger, to the ship and to herself . . . but over time he had witnessed that naivety's gradual demise, and seen a competent officer and brilliant linguist flourish into an eagerness younger than her years and a maturity far older.  
  
Each of the crew had presented challenges, controversies he had seen negated and, in some cases, laughed out of his head since; there had been his existing friendship with Trip, and the concern that as a captain he may be susceptible to, and accused of, favoritism, or that the commander would forget the formalities of a chain of command. There had been T'Pol, a rare case of a Vulcan serving long-term with a human crew, and the contention inevitable to such a situation. Travis Mayweather, with his too-eager attitude and, Archer had feared, a tendency to view the pitfalls of space as normal. Phlox, and the disconcerting fact that humans knew almost nothing of Denobulans and their unorthodox medical practises. Hoshi, and her space-nerves.  
  
And then, there was Malcolm. The closed book to which all of their lives were entrusted, and of which so few could pry open the pages. He could not say that the lieutenant had never surprised him, each of his crew surprised him every day; but Malcolm Reed, although solitary and cantankerous, was remarkably solid, and these defiant silences and sleepwalks and choking fits did not seem like him.  
  
Whichever angle Archer approached the facts from, the same conclusion reared up as a barrier to further thought. Some outside force was at work.   
  
He glowered at the closed door again, thoughtfully. Hoshi's request to guard the lieutenant had been one surprise worthy of note, but only for the first few seconds, and no more. She still blamed herself for shooting him in engineering. It seemed the two officers, so opposite in temperament, had worked the improbable if not the impossible; they had each lent balance to each other, as he had found most of his senior officers did. Hoshi's inveterate warmth drew the lieutenant from his cold barriers, and his practical application of himself and his refusal to give in had encouraged Hoshi to do the same. It would have been foolish, not to mention barbaric, to deny her request. He had given her the security codes for both door and cuffs, and sent her on her way.  
  
T'Pol was the greater worry, now, and the implications of her condition in the current situation were not ones Archer wanted to contemplate.  
  
------------------------------  
  
Reed squinted and fanned the seven cards in awkward fingers, imagining a line drawn in the static air between them and his fixed eyes to keep his attention where it belonged. In the past half hour, Hoshi had shot him glances and even kicked him, playfully enough, to arrest his attention when she made a move or spoke to him; but he had reasons aplenty for refusing to raise his eyes from the cards.  
  
It was that mirror.  
  
He could see her current hand, if he moved his head a little to the right and tilted his chin upward, the cards bluntly reflected in the glass at her back and facing him gallingly; but that was not it, not truthfully, and the excuse sat awkwardly on him.  
  
He could have used the knowledge and let her win as a thank you—if he chose—but the reflections, obscured only in part by Hoshi's hair and the slender lines of her back, were tainted at intervals that followed no regular pattern by the lazy spire of black smoke in the glass. A reflection of something which was not there, as the words in the steam had not been there, as the tapping, the voices . . . all in his head, and clamoring to get out.  
  
Hoshi declared, and set her cards on the table, cheeky eyes laughing at him from a face otherwise deathly serious. He had not consciously relinquished the game to her, and was far from certain he would have done so, even with such a blatant opportunity; and yet she had won, again. When they embarked on this game to pass away the time and keep Hoshi's eyes from drooping closed uninvited, Reed had foolishly anticipated an easy conquest over the obliging ensign; but with her three games to his miserable one, he was beginning to regret accepting her suggestion of a game at all.  
  
Aren't you supposed to be tired? he snapped, put out.  
  
Aren't you supposed to be a tactician? she replied, impishly. Where's your infamous poker face tonight?  
  
Reed sighed, and tossed his cards haphazardly on the table where they fanned and scattered and fluttered to rest in three of the four corners. How about chess? he ventured, kicking back in his seat, pushing the nearest of his losing cards away from him with a mild sneer.   
  
Are you sure? I was queen of the chess club in high school.  
  
Reed smiled his faintest, most fiendish smile as he stood, and said, with a consciously satirical bow:  
  
My dear Hoshi. I have never met any man, woman, or Vulcan that could outplay me at chess.  
  
Hoshi grinned and Reed, pausing to retrieve an errant card and tuck it silently into her hand with one emphatic pat, went to fetch his chessboard.  
  
Since he was a child Reed had always liked to play black, and by a rare stroke of fortune, Hoshi had spent her school years playing white, so there was no argument or coin-toss to cloud the game's beginning. Soon they were deeply ensconced, even the serpentine coils in the mirror opposite forgotten.   
  
he said cautiously, removing her bishop from the board with a flourish, I'm assuming you've told the captain what you found? Or should I say didn't find?  
  
How else do you think I got permission to come down here? She advanced an unsuspecting pawn into the path of his knight. Your move.  
  
Reed appraised the board silently, careful not to raise his eyes above the line of Hoshi's shoulder. And I suppose that means I can expect an official reprimand. That will hardly look flattering on my permanent record. But, I should have told him about the voices the _moment_ I started hearing them, not asked you to . . . well, that didn't exactly turn out for the best, did it? There was more than a passing apology buried in there, but he could not bring himself to make it any plainer.  
  
You're breathing, aren't you? she said quietly. And besides, who said anything about you? All Captain Archer knows is what I told him. That I got a sample of the nanobots from your hair and tried to decrypt them. She inclined her head, chin down, eyes liquid pools of dark light under her brows. Hair can be left on a comb, Malcolm. Or a pillow.  
  
The subtext was not lost on him; unintentional, he was sure, but it was not something he would encourage her to spread. It was too easily misunderstood. he floundered, instead. Where was I?  
  
The voice that replied was not Hoshi's; and around him, fragrant and utterly repulsive to him now, was the acerbic scent of alien chemicals rising from his skin. _I would pay attention to your knight, if I were you_, it said.  
  
Reed's head snapped up, eyes darting to the mirror. Hoshi, too, looked up sharply, perhaps alerted by that flesh-deep odor. Malcolm . . ? she stammered. Her eyes were like black holes themselves, dilated in the low light and widened in fear. Can you hear something?  
  
He nodded. Can't you?  
  
She shook her head, no.  
  
Reed kicked back his chair and stood, not waiting to answer her. The shadows clotted in the glass to a brooding mass, like thunderclouds gathering in a silver sky, and in its depths, a swarm of sinuous shapes swam into features a shade of ebony deeper than the gloom around.  
  
That was all the Dark Man was, in a way. A shade, formed in Reed's own mind _by_ his own mind, whatever physical presence the alien possessed there extrapolated from his own memories. Shades of light, shades of black, shades of reality and fantasy. The lines blurred into a gray haze where nothing seemed true any more.  
  
Reed approached the mirror, fingers outstretched, hoping to somehow reaffirm his belief in reality by tactile contact. He ignored Hoshi's questions, ignored his neglected move, and pressed his fingertips to the mirror, feeling its cold surface tingle. The black cumulus warped and shimmered where he touched, like water spreading its disquiet in concentric circles at the fall of a stone, and for an instant the blackness broke, and reformed.  
  
In its deepest heart, two eyes glowed faintly, guiding lanterns in a thick mist. _What do you want now?_ Reed demanded, certain his vocal cords would again fail should he try to say anything that Hoshi may overhear. _I have nothing more to say to you until you're willing to provide me with fitting information.  
_   
Is it the voices? Hoshi asked, twisting in her chair. Reed silenced her with a raised hand.  
  
_Still chomping at the same bit, Malcolm? To use a phrase familiar to you. You know I only tell what I want to tell.  
_   
_And you know I do nothing acting on incomplete information_, Reed snapped, uncomfortably forcing back every time he had done just that against his own better judgment. It did not alter his ideal. _Nor do I take orders from any voice' but the captain's_.  
  
_The captain may well be giving orders before the morning has passed. The Vulcan is about to wake up.  
_   
Well, that's nice to know, he sighed, tightly. _I suppose you know what happened to her?_  
  
_Of course. I told you those nanobots were dangerous, Malcolm. I told you there are those who would keep our existence a secret, that would prevent first contact. The Vulcan is evidence of that.  
_   
You're saying that the nanobots are responsible for T'Pol? Reed demanded, forgetting to speak inside, and hardly noticing that the block on his throat did not kick in.   
  
Without a mouth it spoke and without lips it smiled, but the shifts in the black where mouth and lips should be performed the task just as well. The Dark Man's avatar chuckled, softly. _When you sweat, is it not true to say that many of the chemicals in your blood seep out in perspiration? In the dead skin cells, the lost hairs and eyelashes? Think, Malcolm. You'll remember._  
  
I do, he murmured, suddenly headsick. T'Pol. Her bizarre, and fruitless, Vulcan memory retrieval technique. He had passed a few—but enough—of the nanobots from his skin to hers when she placed her fingers in his palm.  
  
But did that mean . . . was Hoshi, anybody that had touched him in the past two days, due the same fate?   
  
_Does she look ill to you?   
_   
Reed looked over his shoulder at Hoshi, at her creased brow and pursed lips. No. No, thankfully, blissfully, she did not look ill, and had not set so much as a foot out of place.  
  
_I guess not. Does it only affect Vulcans? Are you telling me your opposition has planted these nanobots in order to do the same thing to the Vulcan High Command, just to prevent first contact? That's why I couldn't speak, when I tried to . . .   
_   
_Yes. Just as the cells in your system are activated by me when I choose to make use of them, so the nanobots are selectively implemented by my rivals. They transfer only to Vulcans—you were the exception, as you were purposefully injected—and target only those who are a danger. That includes both you and the Vulcan among your crew. That trick of hers worked a little too well, wouldn't you say? They couldn't let her go after she had seen me in your dream.  
_   
_So . . . T'Pol? The subcommander, she saw . . . _He let the thought fade, not wanting it finished. The prospect, the invasion of self, was just too terrible. She had seen into his dream, somehow; had seen that vivid childhood memory at the dinner table. It was because she had seen it that she was ill. The assumptions came suddenly, lightning in his brain. He didn't know how he knew, but he knew.  
  
_And that's why you want these nanobots stopped?_ Reed was hypnotized by the smoke, and it seemed his vision had sealed itself, his peripheral sights blackened, the play of mists before him drawing him down a long tunnel to them. _Because the same thing will happen?_  
  
_And the first Vulcan Ambassador you were to shake hands with would contract them from you. A second would contract it from them. The chain would begin.  
_   
I'm Patient Zero, Reed gasped, drawing air into lungs that burned at its touch. _Why tell me this now? Why not sooner? Or not at all, seeing as you're so secretive?  
_   
That smile of shadows quivered into being once more, then faded into mists. _Would you have believed me? And your friends are about to learn as much by themselves, what would be the point in keeping things from you? Besides . . . I've decided what it is I want you to do.  
_  
------------------------------  
  
For the second time in one day, Trip found himself posted on a silent vigil in sickbay, listening to the steady beep of monitors and equipment in an otherwise bated hush. He was not alone, not as long as Phlox needed the space to examine the tissue samples he had extracted from T'Pol and Malcolm, but he might as well have been. Few words passed between them, the one concerned with his readings, the other with an inability to make the mishmash of information fit into something coherent, though both in fact fussed over the same patient.   
  
T'Pol's sallow skin had grown whiter, lost its greenish tinge as her blood drained from the surface, but her breathing was measured, healthy. No need to worry, this time, that the phase pistol had caused any permanent damage. It was inconceivable that the first had done.  
  
Captain Archer returned at last, and, ignoring Phlox, went straight to Trip and T'Pol.  
  
If ya don't mind the expression, you look like you lost a pound and found a penny, Trip commented, looking round.   
  
Pardon me?  
  
Just a little somethin' Malcolm told me, once. Trip offered a paltry facsimile of his usual grin, but the mischief was missing, and he knew it. Archer nodded it away.  
  
Any sign of her waking up?  
  
I think I saw an eyelid twitch a moment ago. But that might be cause her nasal suppressant's wearin' off and I missed my shower this mornin'.  
  
Archer turned to Phlox, his brow dangerously low now, and lifting his voice, asked: Found anything, Doctor?  
  
Actually, Captain, I have discovered quite a few things. Most extraordinary, and I pride myself on having encountered most forms of illness and inebriation in my time . . .  
  
Trip echoed, incredulous. Are you tellin us she's _drunk_?  
  
Phlox twitched. Yes and no. The samples and scans I took from the subcommander have been most fascinating. They contain traces of chemical compounds quite unlike any that I have seen before, but it would be reasonably accurate to describe them as having properties similar to that of alcohol. I assume they are part of the medium used to integrate the nanobots I also found in her system, but that is merely an educated guess.  
  
Archer pounced on the word, hotly. You mean . . ?   
  
I would assume they were transferred to the subcommander by epidermal contact with Lieutenant Reed.  
  
Malcolm, you old dog, Trip muttered.  
  
Archer ignored him. Epidermal contact?  
  
It would only need to be slight, Phlox expanded. Fingers touching handing over equipment of some kind, brushing past in a narrow space . . .  
  
Aww, Doc, spoil my fun, Trip complained.  
  
Does that mean anybody that has been in contact with either of them needs to be quarantined? Archer cut in, shooting Trip a warning glance. Trip subsided, locking his grin down with clenched teeth. The captain's question had touched a nerve; he had grappled with T'Pol, and there had been skin contact. Should he expect to go the same way?  
  
That is the most intriguing thing, Phlox continued, plunging happily into his beloved research babble. The same concern occurred to me and so I checked Commander Tucker here for similar contaminants. He's clean.  
  
Well that's always nice to know, Trip responded dryly. But from the way T'Pol's nose keeps wrinklin' I'm not sure she'd agree with you.  
  
She had, in fact, twitched more than once during their discussion. Trip had listened to the conversation with one ear, watched with one eye, but he kept the other firmly trained on the unconscious Vulcan. he commented, gruffly. She doesn't look so green today. Must be all that copper sinkin' to the bottom.  
  
Phlox turned to him, his cheesiest grin plastered happily on his face, and exclaimed: Thank you, Commander. I think you may have solved the mystery. Give me an hour, Captain. I should have some answers for you.  
  
------------------------------  
  
Hoshi watched the silent tableau anxiously, her fingers biting into the chair back. Reed was rooted, motionless, staring at his reflection in what was clearly an expensive wall mirror—the image of him there was perfect, unflawed, but he watched as if seeing something other than himself. He had spoken only a few words—something about the nanobots and T'Pol, and that chilling coldness of his voice as he named himself Patient Zero—but since then, nothing. She could do no more than she did, watching the minutiae of expression ripple his face in the reflection facing her, waiting for him to speak again and tell her what was going on.  
  
Or what he _thought_ was going on.  
  
The captain had reminded her, as gently as he could, that the owners of the nanobots warned them Reed may hallucinate, but she had been willing to believe Reed when he said it was more than that. But watching him talk to a mirror, addressing voices she couldn't hear, was enough to put doubt in her mind. Could he be losing his grip on reality? These nanobots had done so much, so quickly. They couldn't really be certain, of anything.  
  
He turned away at last, and stumbled forward on uneven legs. Hoshi shot from her chair and caught him. He was pale as death for the second time that day, a shade only one above lily-white, and sickly.  
  
I have to leave, Hoshi, he said, grimly, and pulled away from her.   
  
Is that what they told you?  
  
He spared her a glance, but if he was surprised by the question or troubled by it, he didn't show it. _Showed_ me, he said quietly.  
  
What do you mean, showed you?  
  
Hoshi, if I don't get these nanobots off the ship . . . He sighed, and his shoulders slumped haggardly. I saw it, in the mirror. If I don't leave the ship then all of you will be in danger.  
  
He made for the door before Hoshi could reply, but the sight of his obvious intentions to go against the captain's orders kick-started her. I can't let you do that, Lieutenant, she called after him, shakily.  
  
He looked back over his shoulder, hand half-raised to the door panel. There was the semblance of a smile, but it was dark. How are you going to stop me, Ensign? he said, clipping his syllables impatiently. Tackle me to the ground and whack those cuffs back on me? I have a superior body weight and I'm trained in over twenty different forms of self-defense. But I suppose you could always . . . talk me into submission. It softened at the end, but failed, somehow, to capture much humor.  
  
I promised the captain. I'll be forced to alert him.   
  
You didn't alert him when I asked you to decrypt those nanobots, he replied. Hoshi didn't reply.   
  
Reed nodded, and opened the door.  
  
------------------------------  
  
_(What's your job description, Malcolm?)_  
  
He jogged along the corridors, keeping to the shadows and the less-traveled routes, fragments of the conversation whispered from the mirror playing through his head.  
  
_(To defend my captain and my ship from hostile alien life)  
  
(There's more than that, Lieutenant. You know there's more than that)  
_   
The image he had seen hovered in front of his eyes, real and yet not, a glimpse of a future he had to avert. It was his duty, his raison d'etre.  
  
And it was his fault.  
  
_(To defend with your life, Lieutenant. To always put others above yourself. Be thankful that it hasn't come to that)  
_   
He saw it in an endless replay, a loop that wouldn't be broken. The _Enterprise_, destroyed. An alien mist, half their size, twice their match, demanding the nanobots he carried . . . and when they had what they wanted . . .   
  
He shook the idea away, and picked up his pace. That would never happen if he wasn't here to lead them to him. If that . . . that mist . . . was unsure if what it wanted was here or not, it wouldn't risk any harm to the _Enterprise. _  
  
The launch bay was empty, and Reed slipped inside unnoticed. It was one of the advantages of his position; he had security access to a vast majority of the ship, including this launch bay . . . and the shuttlepods in it.  
  
_(It might, though. I took this assignment knowing the consequences may be . . . final. I'm hoping it won't need to come to that if I act quickly enough)_  
  
At that, the voice had been oddly silent.  
  
Reed tapped in his security code, overriding the lockdown on Shuttlepod One, and the door clicked open. Now that he stood here, that open shuttle was like a yawning mouth, waiting to devour him.  
  
As he stood with the soles of his boots all but welded to the metal, he realized that all along he had secretly been waiting for the tactical alert to wail into life over him. For Hoshi to sound the alarm.  
  
Whatever she was doing now, she was a loyal friend.  
  
There was a click behind him, and the kiss of cold steel clattered against his left wrist. He looked down and saw a set of handcuffs attached to a resolute, and shockingly stern, Hoshi.  
  
I was told to watch you, she said, matter-of-factly.  
  
I have to go, Hoshi. He challenged her with his eyes, but she stared him down, her shoulders shuddering with nerves, possibly afraid of him. Of what he may do. It's not safe.  
  
I know you do, she replied. And I'm coming with you.


	20. RED FOR STOP, GREEN FOR GO

RED FOR STOP, GREEN FOR GO  


  
Cap'n. She's waking up.  
  
Trip studied T'Pol's exsanguinated face, seeing the twitch in her eyelids come again, and leaned forward in his chair, knowing he could not force further confirmation. The captain had fired the shot, but subtracting that slight weight from his own shoulders hardly made a dent. Whatever else she had been, she had also been vulnerable. The trick to lull him from his defenses might have been a lie—but only, he felt secretly, on the surface. Although he had not known the captain was there, and had not planned to deceive her in return, the result had been the same.  
  
Archer came over to the biobed and peered over Trip's shoulder, and Trip forced his face blank hastily. Archer intoned, softly so as not to startle the waking Vulcan.   
  
Phlox left his scans and ambled over, sweeping his scanner in a light arc over her as she stirred. She appears to be unharmed, Captain, other than the nanobots and chemical compounds in her bloodstream.  
  
Archer reached out past Trip and rested the back of his hand against her cheek. Then he removed it and shook his fingers, the frown deepening. They warned us, he said, almost to himself. It was barely audible enough for Trip to pick up, and he suspected that it was lost entirely on Phlox. Then Archer raised his head and said over Trip's, in a much louder voice: They warned us that these nanobots were incompatible with Vulcan blood. Are they going to be harmful to her long-term?  
  
I would not imagine so, but there is really no way to tell until she wakes up. These . . . parasites . . . have caused inebriation but there is no evidence that it will have a lasting effect.  
  
Trip glanced up at Archer and Phlox, registering buried information he was not a party to. Why would the Vulcans react differently than humans? he asked. He had been briefed about much of the original away mission at Devoli V, but the details of the discussion down there escaped him. Somewhere he had missed a page.   
  
Phlox pressed his robust chin into his neck, as he did when preparing to give a lengthy discourse. You said it yourself not half an hour ago, Commander.   
  
I did? Trip shrugged. I must be brighter than I thought.  
  
Archer chuckled and Phlox grinned, but the indignant Trip refrained from joining in. Perhaps you should refresh our memory, Archer invited.  
  
It was Commander Tucker's suggestion that our Vulcan casualty appeared less green' than is customary. Tell me, Captain, did these . . . individuals . . . mention copper at all?  
  
They did, now that you mention it.  
  
From what I can ascertain, not only is the copper in the subcommander causing her adverse reaction, but it may explain why she contracted the nanobots and the commander did not.  
  
Red for stop, green for go, Trip muttered.  
  
Phlox gave Trip a look he didn't like. Of course, Lieutenant Reed was injected directly, but I suspect these nanobots are designed to be attracted to copper, especially in an oxygenated environment such as Vulcan blood.  
  
Archer drew back from the huddle around T'Pol's biobed, and began to pace behind Trip. T'Pol's initial stirrings had subsided again for the moment, and although her breathing was even and the color seeped back into her cheeks she hadn't moved again. So . . . Archer began, . . . if they're attracted to copper, is there any way the same thing could be used to draw these nanobots back out of T'Pol and Malcolm?  
  
Phlox considered. I believe so, Captain.  
  
Get on it.  
  
Archer was about to leave when T'Pol's eyes opened, the lids shooting up as if she had been doused in cold water. Trip shunted aside to make room for him at the bedside, trying not to show his relief.  
  
Archer prompted, softly.   
  
She turned her head to them, taking in Trip and Archer in one blessedly lucid glance.  
  
Can I get ya some coffee? Trip teased, gently. She glared at him.  
  
How are you feeling? Archer continued, shooting Trip a second warning glance.  
  
T'Pol lifted her head a little from the biobed and flexed her shoulders, working back life into stiff muscle. Her face was as bland as Trip had come to expect from her, and her gaze when it alighted on him contained no trace of animosity. He offered a grin, faintly encouraged; perhaps whatever had caused her odd behavior had also erased it from her memory, and the awkward moments in the sweet spot could be left in the past, stranded from history as existing only in Trip's own memory. Then she pointedly rubbed her elbows, and with divine precision rolled one long, tight sleeve back to examine the offending area.   
  
Both arms were severely bruised.   
  
Kym tuol es suore, she replied, and blinked in surprise.  
  
Excuse me? Trip inquired. Phlox swiftly ran another scan.   
  
Ellui govadre, she attempted for a second time. Her dark eyes widened.  
  
Phlox broke in, cautiously studying the scanner. Has Lieutenant Reed manifested any difficulties in speaking recently? Any transposed words, any unidentifiable terms?  
  
Now that you ask, Archer returned. Yes. He choked when he tried to tell me something earlier tonight. I sent him to get some rest, I thought it was probably stress.  
  
These new scans show that Subcommander T'Pol's motor cortex is failing to process signals to and from her brain. Auditory input appears to be functioning and is being correctly received, but the Vulcan equivalent of your Wernicke's area—the linguistic part of the brain—is severely compromised. Quite bluntly, Captain, she's talking nonsense.  
  
Doesn't she always? Trip shot back. He just couldn't resist.  
  
T'Pol glared even harder.   
  
---------------------------  
  
Hoshi scrambled through the hatch after Reed, and he tugged impatiently at the restraints still binding his hand to hers, urging her inside faster. Get in, and hurry up about it if you really _insist_ on coming, he snapped, each syllable a clipped, stabbing sound making a series of disconnected words. He sounded so angry that Hoshi was afraid his heat might burn her should she come too close. I'd say we've only got a few minutes before the whole ship knows what we're up to.  
  
Hoshi took her place behind him obediently, knowing firsthand the futility of arguing with Malcolm Reed when his blood was up. His fingers flew over the helm, the manacled wrist pulling her towards him in frustration as he ran out of give. Hoshi let him urge her one way and the other, holding her tongue as the hatch glided closed behind her. He had ordered her to remove the cuffs—but she refused, adamant those cuffs would come off only when they were clear of the _Enterprise_.   
  
Didn't you override the doors to the launch bay? she asked, watching his frantic initiation of takeoff procedure with a little perplexity. His security codes had been accepted, and the launch bay was unguarded . . . how was anyone to know what they did until it was too late?  
  
Of course I did. That's how I got in. But whether the alarms go off or not, it's only a matter of time before they miss us. I get the impression the captain wants to keep an eye on me' for the time being. He graced her with a glance which barely took her in, but which exuded satire from it. Hoshi subsided, and leaned resignedly into his movements as the impulse engines began to purr like a cat growling low in its throat, sending rocketing little vibrations through the deck beneath her feet.  
  
---------------------------  
  
Sickbay's com whistled, snapping four heads towards the sound in unison.   
  
came Travis' voice, sounding tense even over the channel, our sensors just detected a vessel heading away from us. It's Shuttlepod One, sir, but our internal sensors show no signs of intruders in the launch bay and there's no response to our hails.  
  
Hail them again, Archer ordered. The shrill opening crackle punctuated his last order, but it ushered in only more silence. Trip, Phlox, and T'Pol watched him intently.  
  
Nothing, sir, came Travis' reply.  
  
Open a channel. Punch it through to sickbay, Ensign. Archer raised his head subconsciously, as he would when addressing the viewscreen on the bridge, and said: Shuttlepod One, do you read? There was no answer. Shuttlepod One, respond.  
  
I don't think they wanna talk, Cap'n, Trip observed dryly.   
  
Archer waved him quiet with one raised hand. Mr. Reed, we've got the grappler locked on you, he invented smoothly. Respond or I'll be forced to use it.  
  
A whine sounded as the shuttlepod's com system opened a channel, and the impatient tones of Lieutenant Reed came over loud and clear. How did you know it was me, sir?  
  
Who else would take one of my shuttlepods against direct orders? Return to the ship, Lieutenant.  
  
I'm afraid I can't do that, Captain.  
  
I'm afraid you don't have a choice, Malcolm.  
  
Around him, Trip, Phlox, and T'Pol all listened and waited like statues. The only slight movement was Trip gnawing on his knuckles in an effort to contain a frown.  
  
I'm sorry, sir. It isn't my decision.  
  
He cut the communication.  
  
---------------------------  
  
Hoshi fidgeted in her seat, plucking absently at the collar of her crumpled uniform as Reed closed the channel. The cuffs lie discarded on the bench at the back wall. From where she sat only a sliver of his face was visible, his back turned to her and partly obscured by the seat—but his posture, neck straight and shoulders rigid as ever, told her enough as he continued to key in co-ordinates to their destination, no sign of concern apparent in his whole silent demeanor.   
  
Where are we going? she asked, nervously. It hadn't occurred to her to ask, not before—the only thing she had needed to know was that he intended to leave, alone, possibly into danger because of what he carried in his blood. Something that could not be cut from him nor disabled in him, but which would draw enemies to him like pins to a magnet.  
  
Back to the institute, he replied coldly, not sparing a glance or a turn her way. The fake one, I mean. I want to know who those impostors were and I don't intend to leave until they've taken these . . . these _things_ . . . out of me.   
  
Hoshi nodded, seeing no point in either agreeing or contesting the decision, and forgetting that her body language would be out of his visual range where she sat behind him. But _his_ body language was more than available to her to study; clearly, from his unbending stance, he had made up his mind. He tolerated her presence under sufferance, and no more. Her input would not be appreciated.  
  
The com beeped at the helm, and Reed stabbed it off, aggressively. Ignore it, he ordered.  
  
But what if . . .  
  
I _said_ . . . He sighed, and she wordlessly witnessed the effort it cost him to breathe through such a rigid torso, and force his temper back down before it exploded. . . . ignore it.  
  
The com beeped again, and a small red light flashed on the helm board like a beacon calling ships to shore . . . or warning them away.  
  
_Red for stop_, she thought, arbitrarily. Only he did not stop.  
  
Reed punched the button with sudden, unexpected viciousness. The com channel opened and Hoshi heard the captain's voice, a reassurance in this tempest she had unwittingly plunged herself into, and she saw Reed's back straighten defensively.  
  
Archer said over the com, is Hoshi with you?  
  
I'm here, captain, she replied. Reed twisted abruptly to glare at her, and she fell silent, slumping back in her seat and away from the static rage that streamed from his every pore.   
  
She's perfectly safe, captain, Reed returned smoothly. His abrupt accent had never sounded so proper. For the moment.  
  
Hoshi's head snapped round to stare at the back of his head, eyes widening. All of a sudden, she was far from sure this was a routine manifestation of his flash flood temper. What if, for some reason, the influence that had puppeted his body to do things he didn't want to do was controlling him now? An echo returned that had no place in the here and now, and yet did, and refused to be banished:  
  
_(Do you think he'd be too strong for you if he were under pressure?)  
  
(You've got it in one, Ensign.)  
_   
Is that a threat, Lieutenant? Captain Archer's voice demanded, with a calmness Hoshi knew was entirely invented. As, no doubt, his threat of the grappler had been invented. There just hadn't been time to arrange for that kind of cover on the shuttlepod.  
  
Let me go and you won't have to find out, Reed bit. The vocal cords producing the words sounded tight, a slight vibration to his voice that made it quiver with rage, and made Hoshi quiver with sudden fear. It barely sounded like him.  
  
Where was it you were thinking of going _to_, Malcolm?   
  
You know, Captain. Hoshi's in no danger if you comply, and stand down that grappler. I'm confident you won't use it.  
  
There was a weighty silence. Hoshi could hear herself breathe, could feel its pull and tug in her ribs . . . but from Reed, though his chest heaved, she heard nothing. The com remained obstinately mute.  
  
Malcolm . . . she began, cautiously.  
  
Quiet, Ensign! he snapped. She shut up. He returned his attention to the captain.  
  
Well, Captain? What's your answer?  
  
Bring Hoshi back, Lieutenant, and I'll let you take the shuttlepod anyplace you want, Archer replied, finally. But don't drag her into this.  
  
She's already _been_ dragged into this, Captain. She involved herself. He shot her a sideways glance, only the second he had graced her with, and Hoshi squirmed in her seat, trying to shy away from that cold glare. If you were so concerned about her, why did you let her sit up with me in my quarters this morning? Why not send Trip, or a member of my security team? Why not do it yourself?  
  
I asked him, Hoshi said listlessly. The captain didn't think it was a good idea.  
  
Well, you were right, Captain. It wasn't. But now that she's here, Hoshi comes with me. Try to stop me and she might find the ride a little unpleasant.  
  
Hoshi was already finding this ride somewhat unpleasant, wishing with all her might that she hadn't pushed so hard to come along . . . but she said nothing. The last time, something in him had responded to her, made him fight the influence in engineering, made him wake up. She may be able to work that magic again. But only if she stayed.  
  
Archer tried again, I wasn't going to tell you this, because I didn't want to make you nervous . . . but I was warned that these nanobots may cause hallucinations. That you might experience unusual side effects. Malcolm, whatever you think is going on . . . it's not real. It never was.  
  
Hoshi did not dare breathe in the silence that followed. She watched as Reed's head tilted a little, sagging from his attentive pose until his face was turned into the helm, and he lowered his forehead against the metal, breathing hard. She could hear him now, even above herself, and it was far from normal. She could do nothing but wait, not knowing what to believe, not knowing if Archer or Reed was in the right . . . but knowing that she mustn't let Reed know that.   
  
At last Reed raised his head, composing himself, and took a deep breath that shuddered through his trim frame like a gale. I'm sorry, Captain, he said, weakly, but you don't know what it's like. It's real. It has to be real. See you later, sir.  
  
He cut the transmission, and slumped back in his chair in defeat. It was then that Hoshi noticed what was wrong, what had _been_ wrong the whole time.  
  
There was not even the slightest scent of lemonade in the entire shuttle.  
  
---------------------------  
  
Archer turned to the others, six owlish eyes blinking expectantly at him, awaiting orders. What are ya doin' Cap'n? Trip asked, echoing each of their stares in one question.  
  
Giving him a green light, he said.  
  
---------------------------  
  
Malcolm swung his seat in a lazy 180, bringing his entire face to bear for the first time since they boarded. Every one of his taut muscles seemed to have turned to jelly, and he had sunk into a boneless huddle. He gave a watery smile that did not quite reach his eyes.  
  
I didn't plan that, Hoshi, he murmured. But this is important.  
  
Hoshi felt that familiar sensation of strings being cut, the loosed puppet once more, and collapsed in her own seat with a gasp. He had been pretending.   
  
The whole time, he had been pretending.  
  
You lied to the captain, she managed, faintly.  
  
No, Hoshi. I didn't. I only wish I were. He looked down at his hands, briefly, and sighed. If I don't go, now, then the entire ship will be in danger. He smiled again, sadly. Including you, Ensign. I saw it—remember? I can't forget it, like it never . . . He huffed, a sound like a laugh, but not. . . . happened. I mean like it's not _going_ to happen.  
  
So . . . we're going to Devoli V?   
  
His smile broadened, and the blue eyes on her were suddenly gentle, anxious, and unexpectedly kind. If you don't mind, he said.


	21. WALTZER

WALTZER  


  
It should take them . . . how long to get back to Devoli V? Archer asked Trip, once they had sealed the door of the captain's ready room behind them. At present, the conversation was one they might have continued on the bridge; but Archer knew it was only a matter of time before the subject of the hallucinations surfaced again. Before he had to make a definite stand—either in support of his armory officer's exploits, or against them.  
  
And the truth was, he didn't know which argument screamed the loudest.  
  
Porthos snuffled and looked up from his basket in the corner, where Archer had deposited him at breakfast. The beagle had enjoyed more than his fair share of Jon's scrambled egg and bacon, and had been sleeping it off in peace and quiet since. Today Archer envied him, and his cozy, catered, carefree life between meals and naps and tidbits of cheese. A daily walk was the most stress the little furball ever encountered.  
  
Trip reached down where he stood and scratched the dog's ears affectionately. Porthos whimpered and kicked his hind leg in delight. I reckon three days, Cap'n, give or take.  
  
Archer nodded, for once taking a seat at the table. He could feel the urge to pace itching again, and that was always a sign he should sit down—he found his pacing unnerved subordinates, on occasion even Trip, whom he usually relied upon to laugh when others would squirm. Maybe if we'd gone to Warp 4 or even 3 the moment we left we'd have been too far away for Malcolm to even consider taking the shuttlepod. A couple of hours at Warp 2 just wasn't far enough.  
  
Well, there's been a lot to think about, if ya don't mind my sayin' so, Cap'n. Warp 4 in a busy trade route just isn't a good idea, we had to take it slow even if it made us a little . . . fashionably late. I just hope Hoshi can survive three days o' cabin fever with Malcolm. Trip smiled indulgently, but as had been the trend all this night and day, it did not quite reach his eyes, and they remained leaden with weariness. Both of them were on their feet only by sheer willpower, having barely notched up a full night's sleep between them, and having foregone breakfast altogether. Archer's had been fed to the dog . . . and Trip had been hunting down T'Pol.  
  
Speaking from experience, Trip? he teased.  
  
Trip chuckled. You bet. So what do we do now, Cap'n? Do we follow   
  
It'll take us a few minutes to get to Devoli V once the warp reactor's back online . . . how's it coming along down there, you been to check?  
  
Ah, Hess is doin' fine. We can get up to Warp 2 but the antimatter injectors took a bad rap. Might be a coupla hours before we can push her higher.  
  
Even at Warp 2 we'd be there in two hours or so, Archer mused. Porthos headbutted his ankles. We can intercept them. We'll be in orbit before they've even gotten the first few thousand kilometers.  
  
Or before Hoshi's thrown the first punch, Trip shot back. What about this rendezvous at Titrinus? We've still got the nanobots from T'Pol, if Phlox can figure out a way to get em outta her.  
  
I don't know about you, but I don't want those things leaving this ship until we know more about those impostors. I say we stay as far away from Titrinus as we can.  
  
And about that, at least, he could be absolutely certain.  
  
-----------------------------  
  
An hour had passed in silence since he cut the communication with the captain, and after that suddenly shy, childlike apology, Reed's attention had been consumed, entirely, by the helm. Hoshi spent the time replaying all she knew and all she had heard, forcing together puzzle pieces that didn't want to match, trying to make sense of the faint notion she had that Reed was telling the truth. In that time, her rapt gaze did not stray from the back of his inclined head, drinking in the body language that, in absence of the spoken word, was bread and meat to her.  
  
She wished she had not allowed the analogy to surface; she hadn't realized, until now, just how hungry she was.  
  
How long will it take to get back to Devoli V at impulse? she asked, hoping to prompt some mention of food or sleep from him by the question. She did not include a sir' she figured this mission was anything but official.  
  
Remember, Ensign, I did give you every opportunity to withdraw your offer of a chaperone, he stalled, studying the panel uncomfortably hard.   
  
How long, Malcolm?  
  
He sighed, and rubbed his temples with one hand as if they pained him. Three days.   
  
Hoshi jolted upright in her seat. Three _days_? Did you just say three _days_? Isn't that . . . I mean, what are we supposed to . . ?  
  
The chair pivoted on its axle, and Reed cast an amused, distant smile on her, though it was thin, and radiated no life. Relax, Hoshi. You know, for an exolinguist you really are quite tongue-tied on occasion. I've checked everything; rations, O2 cylinders, water . . . there's even clean uniforms in that locker at the back. I was always a good Eagle Scout.  
  
There he went again, confusing her by speaking so profusely after a long silence. It was going to be a long three days.  
  
How are we going to sleep? she ventured, at last. Although the question, in its specific form, was How can _I_ sleep, and leave you unguarded?'.  
  
He searched her face carefully, something he rarely did, the cool blue of his eyes cutting through hers and into her thoughts like a laser. It was something he so rarely did that it made her . . . uncomfortable. I was thinking in shifts, he replied, carefully. That way one of us is always alert to any interesting . . . phenomena.  
  
Hoshi flushed under the stare, one that seemed to sever flesh from bone, reading the invisible ink between her spoken lines and responding as opaquely as she had asked.  
  
Why don't you get some sleep, Hoshi? I'll take first watch. And he turned back to his readouts.  
  
Hoshi sat, awaiting more—or perhaps awaiting any excuse, _anything_, to refuse his offer. Moments passed, with nothing forthcoming. Then out of the blue, and without turning, he said: I won't bite, Ensign.  
  
If she had prepared a response for a preemption as blatant as that, it was gone now; she merely opened her mouth to expel a slight outrush of air, then closed it again with a snap. How did you . . ?  
  
How did I know? He sighed, and the helm seat swung round again, a little less abruptly than before. You'd be surprised what I notice when no one knows I'm watching. I could tell you every detail of your quarters down to the last shelf, and we both know I've not seen it for more than a few minutes at a time, and only once or twice.  
  
He stared her down with that disquieting gaze, more intense, even, than usual. Hoshi dug her fingers into her knees, determined not to be intimidated like a naughty schoolgirl under a teacher's eyes; but the flood of adrenaline that had powered her as they made their launch had subsided and left her strengthless, a sail without a breeze to drive it. Terrified of what she had done, and to what she had become committed. She lowered her head into her palms, elbows on her knees, and counted each painful breath as it came.   
  
In the silence between each heartbeat her sensitive ears detected a progression of soft, measured sounds, barely there; the whisper of his uniform swishing against the vinyl of the helm seat, footsteps that fell too lightly to ring on the deck plates, and the clacking, clattering sound of some metallic item being retrieved.   
  
When she opened her eyes, he was crouching in front of her, his face only a hand's breadth from hers. In his fist he held the discarded cuffs, slightly extended to her.   
  
You have a picture of your high school graduation on the cabinet beside the bed, he related, more softly. And some ridiculous image of an overfed cat with what I assume was you at a much younger—and might I say skinnier—age. You keep that awful pink rug you have the cheek to call a robe on a hook beside the door, and . . . He trailed off, and Hoshi smiled, achingly.  
  
You know, she said, pressing her fingers to her forehead in one final attempt to seal away the ache beginning there, I can remember a fair amount of _your_ quarters, too. That mirror, for one. It looked old.  
  
Yes, well . . . I've had it a long time, he dismissed, on a breath. There's really nothing much to say about it.  
  
Hoshi knew that she had touched a nerve, but said nothing. Reed extended the handcuffs to her with a look of utter amusement overtaking the oblique clouding of his face. You can cuff me to something while you sleep, if it will make you feel better, he said, archly.  
  
Hoshi was about to punch him in the shoulder when the shuttlepod jolted alarmingly, flinging Reed off-balance and slamming his whole weight into Hoshi's knees. With the spring of a cat, he clawed his way back to the helm, anxiously scanning the readouts there. What on earth was _that_? he demanded, to nobody in particular.  
  
It felt like a collision. A meteor?  
  
I don't see any sign of one. Maybe . . .  
  
He never finished the rest. The shuttlepod was buffeted by another force twice as strong as the first, tremors shooting through the seat and the deck plates beneath Hoshi, the hull squealing as metal ground against metal. Sparks spat from the helm and ignited the air of the shuttlepod with the fumy stench of melted plastic, settling their brilliant points of fire in Reed's unusually tousled hair. This time the shocks did not pass, as before; they grew stronger, bolder, until the third wave came and the shuttlepod rattled with the indiscriminate malevolence of an earthquake zone.   
  
Hoshi was jolted from her seat, and she lie where she fell, pressed to the deck plates and spreading her weight to ride the waves. Reed was on his feet, but barely, gripping the helm with both hands and bracing his knee against the seat beside him, leaning his weight into the shockwaves and shifting his feet as he struggled to remain upright.  
  
Around them, everything began to blur.  
  
-----------------------------  
  
Porthos yelped excitedly as the com whistled again, and Travis' voice said: Captain, we have a problem.  
  
_Don't we always?_ Archer thought, bitingly. He glanced across at Trip where he stood, evaluating the worried collision of his chief engineer's pale eyebrows over his turned-up, ski slope nose. Judging from that baffled look, Trip had had the same, admittedly crass, thought.  
  
Archer moved over to the panel at the far side of the ready room, and depressed the button to speak. What is it, Travis?   
  
It's Shuttlepod One, sir, came Travis' voice again.   
  
Trip was looking uncomfortably hard at Archer, waiting for him to make a reply. Archer felt, briefly, like inviting him to take over.  
  
What about Shuttlepod One? Already there was a sinking feeling—no figure of speech, but a literal sensation—in Archer's stomach, a stone ploughing through layers of sediment.  
  
I've been keeping an eye on it since they launched, Captain, Travis returned. They're gone. Our sensors can't pick them up anywhere within range.  
  
That's impossible.  
  
That's what they said about male pregnancies, Trip drawled, pronouncing the southern twang with a stark deliberance Archer had come to recognize as facetious. He stared at Trip, expectantly. I was just sayin'.  
  
Any sign of their engine signature?  
  
None, sir, Travis reported, with a shrug Archer could not see . . . but could hear in his voice. Should I try hailing them again?  
  
I can do better than that, Ensign. Set a course for Devoli V. Warp 2.  
  
Neither Trip nor Travis questioned the captain, and the com was severed. Trip wordlessly nodded his agreement, the pale crease of his eyebrows deepening with worry.   
  
Porthos whined, and tried to crawl under the table.  
  
-----------------------------  
  
Hoshi flattened herself against the deck plates and locked both arms around the base of the helm seat as beneath her the shuttlepod rumbled like the birth of a mountain . . . or the destruction of one. She clamped her eyes shut against the sickening motion blur zipping past her, like the pound and the wail and the chop-chop scenery of a fairground ride with the safety protocols disabled. A sound high as a dog whistle, stark as the wind rattling broken shutters, sliced through her head and burned behind her eyes. If they didn't stop soon . . .   
  
. . . if they didn't stop soon, then the shuttle was going to be torn apart.   
  
Hoshi tried to yell, but the gale thrashing through the shuttle tore her voice from her mouth and shredded the words into the cyclone. She felt like Dorothy, swept away to Oz.  
  
Another collision rocked the tiny shuttlepod, and she heard a thud and a dull clang beside her as the force threw Reed from his feet at last. She wanted to open her eyes to see if he was hurt, but her head was being cleaved and twisted by the rush, and she knew if she looked, if she saw the impossible flurry of color and shadow and sparks and stars around her, she would vomit. So she held the darkness, kept her eyelids down firmly, and stopped her breath in a wordless prayer she barely realized she formed.  
  
There was an unexpected warmth at her back, arms folding her into the heat. Hoshi took the hand clasping her waist and squeezed it, accepting his weight on her as a shield. They took cover on the floor as the fluctuating gravity in the shuttlepod cut back and forth through them like the force of a plummeting lift. His arms pressed her tighter as the free spin that pummeled the defenseless shuttlepod accelerated to a white noise screaming in her head.  
  
Nothing lasts forever, Hoshi, he said, in her ear. He must have been shouting, and yet she barely heard him. Stay down. It'll be okay.  
  
As if on cue, the battering calmed. Suddenly, there came a point when she had realized they were not spinning so fast, and the thunder dropped to a motionless hush. Reed reclaimed his hand from her and pulled away from her, wordlessly, as if it had never happened. Hoshi lie in her self-imposed blindness a moment, winded and stunned, and crept from one breath to another, forcing each to come.   
  
She heard him punching buttons at the helm, and pried her eyes open, blinking into the gloom. Half of the shuttlepod's internal lights were out.  
  
I don't believe it, she heard him mutter, to himself.  
  
Nursing her ringing head in her hand, Hoshi clambered to her feet, and staggered over to him on unsteady legs. She peered fearfully through the reinforced glass, expecting the crisp velvet and crystal drops of a starfield, immense and infinite from port to starboard; instead, the screen was awash with the blazing blue-white glow of a planet, clouds scudding across the sapphire surface in soft eddies like ripples in a pond.   
  
Reed was not looking up with her; he was studying the readouts with a frown. That's impossible, he muttered.   
  
What is?  
  
He looked up at last, and blinked. I don't think we're in Kansas any more.


	22. THE SOUND OF NO BIRDS SINGING

THE SOUND OF NO BIRDS SINGING  


  
The plaza was different from when the away team had last seen it. The milky morning sunlight they had described so clearly to Hoshi still shone aslant between the trees, but it struck no warmth from the flagstones; a grayness hovered beneath the surface.   
  
Reed had disembarked almost eagerly as the shuttlepod landed, forgetting Hoshi, forgetting his previous suspicions about this counterfeit institute, intent only upon searching out the people that had done this to him. Hoshi bided her time, understanding from the tight ripple in his cheek and the horizon-straight line of his shoulders that her presence was neither wanted nor needed.   
  
She hesitated at the shuttlepod's hatch, and watched.   
  
The place was a ghost town, something from an old Western; leaves parched with merciless heat and torn loose by fearsome winds fluttered across the flagstoned square, and the breezes whistled in the desolate hollows. There was the deathly sound of no birds singing.  
  
Reed was unarmed, a state she could tell from his stance was naturally uncomfortable for him, but he stepped around the open plaza with the quick, practiced movements she had learnt to expect from him, his light feet springing from stone to stone and his eyes bright with the cold gray and faint drizzle in the air. She had rarely seen him mean business this way before, but the occasions on which she had were a comfort—he was a trained bodyguard as well as tactician and defense expert, and automatically adopted those instincts when danger may threaten. She allowed her mind to wander back to the pretend kidnap; but to her, now, Reed was more himself' than he had ever been.  
  
He turned to her, and called out in a tone she knew well; a changed tone, speaking as Lieutenant to Ensign. As if nothing had occurred but a routine away mission. Stay with the shuttle, Ensign. I'll take it from here.  
  
I'd rather go with you, she replied.   
  
That wasn't a request, Hoshi.  
  
Hoshi pursed her lips, thoughtfully. With all due respect, sir, you're hardly in a position to be giving orders. You stole a shuttlepod, Lieutenant. And technically the captain suspended you from active duty when he confined you to quarters. If anything, then currently I outrank you.  
  
Reed's frown deepened as he stared speechlessly at her. Then that slow honey-smile began to tug at the corners of his mouth again, and he folded his arms, neatly. I _borrowed_ it, he said. All right, Ensign, if you're in command of this little expedition . . . then what do you want me to do?  
  
Hoshi shuffled her feet. Well, I . . . She stuck her chin in the air. I order you to lead the way, Lieutenant.  
  
Reed chuckled, and did just that.  
  
----------------------------  
  
It had taken the unnegotiable force of his rank to win the argument, but Archer had finally succeeded in sending Trip to get some rest for three hours, seeing the commander's eyelids drooping to half-mast against all effort to keep them open. He knew he expected too much of the engineer, sometimes, relying on him as the sounding board he needed when this command became a burden. He had spent years of friendship and Starfleet training grooming the younger man for the role of first officer, and in hours of need tended to confide in Trip what he would never confide in T'Pol. And at those times it was easy, even despite the Vulcan's obvious presence, to think of Trip as his second still.  
  
It occurred to him now that he had never really apologized to Trip for T'Pol's sudden succession in his place, and yet Trip had made only token noises of complaint for a few weeks, then allowed it to pass altogether, a gesture fundamentally unlike him. By nature, the man was vocal in his grievances.  
  
So it was that when Phlox requested Archer's presence in sickbay, he went alone. Only the ever-hopeful Porthos trotted at his heels.  
  
T'Pol's mutinous pout had not altered, but when Archer arrived she was sitting upright on a biobed, ramrod-straight. Clearly, imposed silence did not agree with her as much as she would have them all believe. Phlox stood by with his amiable grin reduced to its midpoint, far from distressed, but tempered a little compared to his usual irrepressibility.   
  
Tell me you have good news, Doctor.  
  
Phlox eyed Porthos suspiciously. It was not customary to allow the dog in sickbay unless a request for Phlox's veterinary services was in order—on one occasion Porthos had located Phlox's bat and spent a no doubt enjoyable ten minutes barking at the thing—but in this instance, Archer was too preoccupied to care. Phlox shook his head briskly, and replied: Well, that all depends on what you constitute good news'. If you are inquiring whether I successfully removed the nanobots from Subcommander T'Pol then yes, I have good news. However there are some complications; although they were extracted in full the chemical compound remains. She still does not seem able to speak with any reasonable coherence. Also, without an organic environment these nanobots appear to be . . . dying.  
  
Archer felt a furry muzzle nudge his legs, and glanced down at the baleful brown eyes peering at him. He resisted the urge to tell the little dog he didn't have any cheese, and said instead, to Phlox: Dying? But they're . . .  
  
Nanobots? I won't argue. But I have discovered they have organic components that the whole needs in order to survive. Now I realize it is your decision but until we know more about these nanobots I would recommend keeping the sample we have onboard alive.  
  
Archer shared a glance with T'Pol that spoke far more than words could ever do. She stared serenely back. And that would entail what, exactly? he asked the doctor.  
  
Injecting the nanobots into another living host. These beings were correct when they told you the copper base may cause damage to them. It may be partially to blame for the subcommander's more serious reaction. There should hopefully be minimal danger to any who volunteered, provided they are not Vulcan . . . and these nanobots can always be removed at a later date.  
  
T'Pol's mouth twitched and her inanimate eyebrows tugged upward, near imperceptibly. Kyl amore t'antiduil, she attempted. Then, to make herself understood when words failed, she pointedly rolled up the sleeve of her body suit to reveal a dark smudge of bruising on her yellowish skin. She was trying, however extraordinarily, to make an unamused joke suggesting Commander Tucker as a guinea pig. He could see her grievance against Trip over those bruises coming to blows, before long.  
  
What about Mr. Reed's side effects? Can we expect the same thing to happen to this . . . volunteer?  
  
From my analysis of these nanobots, Captain, I can see no logical reason to assume these nanobots are even responsible for his . . . behavior. But Mr. Reed is an unusual case—he has a number of allergies and other mitigating factors which may be causing some reaction I am unaware of. Without further tests I can't be sure of that. But I feel confident that I can suggest a volunteer who should be wholly immune to any . . . problems.  
  
Archer straightened and looked at Phlox, recognizing a more sensible suggestion when he heard one. Who did you have in mind? he asked.  
  
Phlox's grin widened.  
  
----------------------------  
  
It was the air, Hoshi concluded from only the first breath, which stirred the memory from its settling of aged dust—the taste of it, leaving a thick slime on her tongue, tempting a sneeze with its persistent itch. The sound of silence, murmuring to itself.  
  
During her language studies in college, Hoshi had often volunteered for sabbaticals with the archaeological team, grasping the rare opportunity they gave her to unearth new models for established dead languages. Though her major had been exolinguistics, paleolinguistics never ceased to capture her imagination, and those vacation digs had been if not a pleasure then an experience. She had enjoyed them but for the air that coated her lungs with the dust of centuries and left her with a hacking cough for weeks after. Whatever the institute had been like when the away team first landed, the shell of a devastated building with the air of a thousand years in its halls greeted them now.  
  
The double doors of VISAC, or rather what they taken for VISAC on that first mission, yawned open like a maw onto blackness, and that air she had hated in college blew from the dark on a stagnant breeze, dust motes caught at the edge of the weakening evening light of the plaza.   
  
Reed removed his communicator from the pocket of his uniform, and flipped it open with a practiced flick of the wrist. Reed to _Enterprise_, he said. _Enterprise_, this is Lieutenant Reed, come in. We've arrived at Devoli V with some unexpected results. Only static whined in the graveyard hush of the plaza. It had been the same on the shuttlepod—the transmission had either failed to go through, or else no reply could be received. They must still be out of range.  
  
No birds singing, Hoshi murmured. Reed snapped his communicator closed and returned it to his pocket impatiently. Come again?  
  
Nothing. Just something I learned at the academy. In the last two centuries, it was common for a pilot to describe radio silence as no dogs barking'. But my roommate and I always thought it sounded better to say birds'. No birds singing.  
  
It sounds to me like you need to get out more, Reed tsked. Then, with him leading the way and Hoshi behind, they went inside.  
  
----------------------------  
  
There was water dripping somewhere in the black, a steady, dull patter, _thud-thud-thud_, and in the darkness, the drilling, repetitive drops whispered close, swooping past her ear. Taunting.   
  
In the entranceway, Reed swept the yellow-white beam of the flashlight over the debris underfoot, over a tea-maker spilling its contents across the marble floor, the hardware wrenched clean from the wall and shattered in a jagged array of glass and plastic over the empty, cracked cups. Dried tea leaves of every color and aroma, churned to a fine chalky-malt gravel, crunched under their feet, sending up a bruised sour-sweet herbal scent in a pungent cloud. Hoshi shuddered.   
  
It's like it's been abandoned for centuries, she murmured, more to herself than to Reed. How can that be?  
  
I have an idea, he replied grimly. But it's going to sound rather bizarre if I try to tell you. Besides . . . I'm not sure I'd be _able_ to tell you.  
  
Try. You might find it's okay. Maybe whatever it was has worn off.  
  
Reed shook his head, but Hoshi nodded him on. He sighed, a passing flicker of uncertainty catching in his eyes like the reflections of flames, and said: It's holographic. Well, in a sense at least. All of it . . . the institute, the two Vulcans we spoke to . . . even the weather. No doubt the captain told you about that. He caught her eyes reprovingly, looking up from beneath his eyelids in a lancing gaze that cut through the gloom to her. When he warned you that I might be going crazy? There was no reproach there, only an oddly resigned sorrow. Hoshi swallowed.  
  
So . . . that's why it looks so old? But why, why would anyone do that? Is it a malfunction?  
  
That, my dear Ensign, is something I couldn't tell you. Perhaps somebody doesn't want us nosing around in here. Nothing like a haunted house to turn away the faint of heart. With that, he turned, and walked on.  
  
Hoshi nodded, and crept forward. She walked in his footsteps, watching the jut of his shoulder blades through the uniform soaked black against him along the curve of his spine, watching the perspiration trace down his neck and pool in the dark feathers of hair at its base.   
  
Go back to the shuttlepod, Ensign, he said, suddenly.   
  
He turned, his shoulder brushing against her as he moved in the close space, and fixed searching eyes on her. Hoshi crumpled under the gaze, the schoolgirl flush creeping back into her cheeks again. With respect, Lieutenant . . . she replied, . . . no.  
  
You're frightened. He stated it as hard fact. Go back. What good do you think I'll be if I'm worrying about you all the time? I'm trained for this sort of thing. You're not. Now _go back_. That's an order.  
  
Hoshi opened her mouth to speak; her tongue was numb, and nothing came for a terrifying moment. Like you're not, she said, in a tiny voice.  
  
He studied her a moment, weighing up her statement. He might take it as her observing that he would still worry no matter where she was; but, perhaps, he would understand her real meaning. And be unsettled by it.  
  
He stepped back a degree or two; the disquieting flicker had not left his tired eyes, and the worry lines had only deepened. Go back, Hoshi. His tone was softer, now. This isn't about you.  
  
Hoshi opened her mouth to finally agree. It was then that the floor disappeared from beneath them.  
  
----------------------------  
  
The marble underfoot snapped from a horizontal plane to a forty-five degree angle in the space it took Hoshi to catch a breath, and both officers were tipped from their feet. Hoshi did not even have the time to scream; they plummeted down the slick surface of the slide, somersaulted by the sheer sudden force that catapulted them, tangling together in a jumble of limbs as they were swept around a corner. The tilted floor melted upward and over and met above them, sealing them in a cylindrical tube whose walls they skirted at the next sharp bend.  
  
Hoshi forced her eyes open in time to see a hole gaping in the tunnel up ahead, and they were swept towards it like a crashing wave rushing over pebbles . . . the tunnel broke, stretching like warm taffy, dividing into a fork; one to that blackness, the other to a sweeping arc that twisted into a circle and back on itself. Hoshi felt herself forced into the second, already feeling the curve under her . . . as she looked across, she saw Reed being carried into the first.   
  
She just had time to see the hole close behind him before the bend swept her away, and out of sight of the jaws that had swallowed the lieutenant.


	23. SOLOMON GRUNDY

SOLOMON GRUNDY  


  
She'd taken a blow to the head when the tunnel's end spat her into this sterile space; that Hoshi remembered, if only from the impression of starry surprise and the stinging bright spot in her temple. What little remained of the last few moments was a drifting flotilla of dancing silver in a sea of exhaustingly endless black. There was the sense of falling, of thin light diminishing into darkness, that moment of stunned hurt . . . and now, pain in her throbbing temple. Everything else since the floor gave way had been knocked clean out of her head.  
  
She ached from that fall she barely remembered, and as she drew in a breath that shuddered through her like the wind through a lace curtain at an open window, she found that the disintegrating taste to the air had been left behind with her memory. This air was tasteless, processed but clean, and she gulped it in greedily, ridding her lungs of their store of rancid dust until she felt giddy. It was now that she noticed she was lying on cold metal, and in unwavering silence.  
  
Hoshi responded to the hush and opened her eyes with a snap, not so much drawn to reality as repelled by her own thoughts. A black as deep as the silence pawed at her with intangible hands she could not see. She pulled herself upright, startling a dizzy swell of colored lights behind her eyes momentarily.  
  
she ventured, softly. It melted into the air like salt into water. Lieutenant, are you there?  
  
Apart from the in-out of her own hungry lungs, there was not a sound to be heard, even by her. The silence tipped her from unease to terror in a way even the shattered tea-maker had been unable to do; it was _never_ truly silent for Hoshi Sato. She had thrived by hearing what others could not, sieving the frequencies through mental fingers to discover what may catch in their net. Nowhere was ever _truly_ silent, despite what her friends and her family and her colleagues may say to the contrary, and she had often nodded along with them, allowing their misimpressions, but secretly enjoying that exclusive layer of sounds that only she could hear. Here, now, was the first utter absence of sound that she had ever known.  
  
she yelled, but like her breaths, the sound was absorbed into the nothing and not even a passing echo returned to her. She hugged herself tighter and called again, but the sponge of the air soaked up her voice, stealing it from her mouth as it left her. It was neither hot nor cold in this place, dry or humid; the stifled acoustics and pitch darkness stole away all sense of distance. She might be in a vast cavern or a tiny closet . . . underground or over, although her fall made her think under. But only her instinct told her even that much.  
  
she screamed again, and again in Vulcan, Klingon, Andorian, Xyrillian, a host of others . . . until finally the plateau of unbroken quiet defeated her, and she sank back down to the floor, the wind snatched from her sails.  
  
No matter how sternly she told herself she would not cry, a treacherous prickle of heat began to burn along her eyelashes. She blinked it back with a painful gulp, and fumbled her communicator from her pocket. She pried it open and listened for the comforting crackle of an open channel to welcome her, anticipating its invasion into the silence with barely restrained pleasure.   
  
There was nothing.  
  
The childish tears swept forward in a rush of disappointment, and angrily she swallowed their salty undertaste back, feeling the dryness coat her throat and ruin her voice as she spoke anyway. _Enterprise_, do you read? Captain, it's Hoshi, please respond.   
  
Nothing returned, not even static. Before it could be stopped, a sob choked out of her, bringing the tears with it. Malcolm, are you there? she murmured, dropping her words to a whisper to disguise their lack of resonance. Lieutenant, this is Hoshi, please respond. _Please_, Malcolm, for once in your life, say something!  
  
It was then that Hoshi became aware of the silence breaking like an eggshell; it was now invaded by an undulating buzz like the bass on a half-muted sound system, not sinking into the air but lying uncomfortably on it the way her own voice had lain and died. But it did not come from the communicator in her hand, much as her mind tried to rationalize that it did; it seemed to be coming from a few meters away, to her right.   
  
His communicator, responding in kind to her call . . . unanswered, but clear in the hush.   
  
Hoshi stiffened. The absence of even another's breathing in the darkness had convinced her that she was alone when she was sure of very little else. But his communicator, at least, was here, the call untaken, and it, she knew, had been in his pocket as her own was in hers. Did that mean . . ?  
  
She gulped, balking at the final thought wanting to complete the chain. If his communicator lie nearby, and it had been with him, then . . . was he here, too, unable to respond but nevertheless close by?  
  
His communicator could have shaken out of his pocket and simply followed her course instead of his . . . but it might also be that he was here, and no longer breathing.  
  
------------------------------  
  
Trip trod conscientiously soft as he crept ahead. He had never possessed Reed's feline grace or T'Pol's concise lack of exertion, and it took effort to set his feet down softly, especially over the crunching remains of a tea-maker inside the entrance.   
  
He sucked in his breath, focused on one step at a time—but each step he made led him further into the black of a long-abandoned institute that only days ago had been bright, inhabited, and whole. The darkness beyond his flashlight's pale vortex swallowed the ceiling and all but a fragment of the floor and walls. The structure creaked as he walked, as if even the muffled click of his boots on the marble floor were causing an avalanche, and there was an unearthly silence not broken by his deliberate footsteps but somehow enhanced by them; the footsteps belonged to something alive, to an interloper in a forgotten ruin. Life did not belong in this strange modern spin on the valley of the dead.  
  
When the captain had sheepishly awakened him, after barely an hour of sleep, to inform him that Hess had repaired the warp reactor to a capability of Warp 4, and that the _Enterprise_ had arrived at Devoli V earlier than they had hoped, Trip had foolishly volunteered to take Shuttlepod Two in alone. The captain had pressed him to take Travis with him, at the least; but Trip had cheerfully shot down any suggestion of company, not expecting too much trouble on the planet itself, and wanting the situation taken care of the quickest way possible. He had a feeling that a paranoid Malcolm would respond more favorably to one alone than to a landing party of two or more. He also suspected, in truth, that Malcolm's hallucinations would be just that—hallucinations, groundless side effects of the nanobots as his miraculous recovery had apparently been, and no more. Besides, he had joked, three absent officers was more than enough for any one away mission.  
  
But right at this moment, he would be grateful, so grateful, not to be the only living thing in sight.  
  
I'd even be glad o' T'Pol right now, how bout that? he muttered to himself, wanting to hear even his _own_ voice . . . but even as he spoke and his words fell flat and echoless on the stagnant air like the thud of a soaked, balled-up rag hitting the floor, he wished he hadn't.   
  
After a moment, the subtle slope of the floor curved downwards, and carpet replaced the slick marble. The decline steepened briefly before leveling out again.  
  
There he halted, pulling a scanner from his pocket with his sweaty right hand. Shuttlepod One had been in the plaza, large as life and twice as shiny, but he had only his vague impression that Malcolm was borderline obsessive to tell him they had ever ventured further than the threshold of this decaying institute. He did not intend to go a step further into the dark unless he knew for a fact that his crewmates were somewhere inside.   
  
He quickly scanned for biosigns, as he had from Shuttlepod Two. On that initial scan he had registered two strong signatures, moving together in this very stretch of corridor . . . now he also registered two, the one far below him and the other in the very spot in which he himself stood. Both remained steady, his own immobile, the one below progressing through a confined area immediately surrounding it, and never beyond.  
  
Two. There had been two before he entered, and now again two where three should be. One had disappeared as he ventured in . . . and there had not been time, even running, for the last one to leave. Nothing in the institute's residual energy signatures indicated a transporter beam-out of any kind.  
  
One of his friends had either vanished into thin air . . . or was dead.  
  
Second time for everything, I guess, Trip drawled shakily, amplifying its lilt in the hope that it would have some impact on the sedimentary air. It did not.  
  
He walked on, but even more cautiously now, trying not to breathe too loudly although he hardly felt that he was breathing at all. The slope wound steadily down into darkness and silence; he stumbled forward in his solitary globe of mellow white light, the dark both closing seamlessly behind him and opening ahead, urging him deeper. He crept on, breath bated, knowing he should never have come alone.  
  
As the corridor wound downwards, a drift mine cutting steeply and fatally into the darkness of the planet, his flashlight fell on a bright red spot, splashed on the carpet beside his weary feet. He panned the light, and found another, and another, a few centimeters apart. The trail led deeper into the subterranean corridors. Trip knelt, and tested the blood spot with his fingers. It was quite fresh.  
  
A few meters on, the regular spots became a smear running parallel to the walls, as if the injured party had been dragged—or else had slid—along the floor.   
  
The biosign he had picked up besides his own had been in the lower levels; the owner of this shed blood, perhaps. Or were those splashes and that smudged track symptoms of a more serious wound . . ?  
  
All Trip knew was that one of them, alive or dead, must be at the end of this trail of breadcrumbs; and it was his duty, both as their commander and their friend, to find out who.  
  
You owe me big if this is another one o' your little trick deaths, Malcolm, he growled. But it was only a half-serious threat, and more than a little made to try to convince himself, unsuccessfully, that it wouldn't be anything more.  
  
------------------------------  
  
As a child, Hoshi had once volunteered to wear a blindfold for charity during a high school fund-raiser. She had thought it would be a valuable experience, not only in honing the use of her ears, but in learning to understand how the world changed for the blind. How even simple things like answering the door or making a drink became difficult. And it _had_ been difficult, more than she had anticipated; she had fallen halfway down the stairs before twenty minutes of the agreed hour had passed. But she had known throughout that entire hour that should there be a real emergency, she could remove the blindfold—just reach up, and pull it away. And it was only now that she realized that. Because that was what was so terrible; there was no blindfold to pull away this time. Reed may be within arm's reach of her, wounded or . . . or worse . . . and without her sight, she could do very little to find out for certain, and even less to help him if she _could_ find out. Communications were down and she was on her own.  
  
Hoshi did what she had done all her life. She used her ears.  
  
Trembling badly now, she raised her communicator to her mouth and spoke into it, repeating the old nursery rhymes she had used to teach basic elocution to entry-level students in Brazil; Solomon Grundy and her favorite, All the H's. One ear she kept focused on her own words, to keep them separate from all other sounds—with the other she listened for the faint hiss at the receiving end of the com channel, following it.  
  
In Hertford, Hereford and Hampshire, she recited, finding the repetition oddly therapeutic, hurricanes hardly ever happen. Malcolm would probably approve her choice of rhyme, she thought wryly—they were all English place names. She listened, and sure enough, the snapping, popcorn sound was coming from her right. She sidled over on her thigh, using her knees to lever herself along, reluctant to stand when she had no idea how high—or how low—the ceiling may be. The crackle grew louder.  
  
Solomon Grundy, born on Monday, she began another, edging to her right in incremental nudges, christened on Tuesday . . .  
  
Her right thigh brushed against something that skittered forward a little from the collision. Something small, and light. The sound was coming from round about here. She closed her communicator, put it away, and crept her fingers forward across the floor the way a spider walks, until they came across the item to which the static had led her. It was smooth, about the size of a compact mirror, and cold to the touch. The crackle and static had died when she stopped speaking, but there was no mistaking the thing she held in her hands.  
  
It was Reed's communicator.  
  
Married on Wednesday, she gulped, tightening her throat around the perfect, muffled sounds of the nursery rhyme. Took ill on Thursday . . .  
  
She walked her hands on, terrified of happening suddenly upon something soft, perhaps warm, perhaps not—she had no idea how long she had been unconscious—but speaking her idiotic mantra like a ward against panic. Worse on Friday, died on Saturday . . .  
  
Her hands bumped against another article, as cold and inorganic as the first, but larger, cylindrical, with a switch raised on one long edge. Shaking so hard she could barely hold it, Hoshi ran her thumb over the bump, and flipped the switch there. Light flooded an empty room no larger than the mess hall on _Enterprise_, just steely walls and ceiling and floor glinting in the pale beam. A doorway yawned open ahead of her, but there was no sign of the opening that had spat her out in the first place. The ceiling above her was unbroken, scratched but whole. There was no way she could have come from up there.  
  
And yet, she had.   
  
Buried on Sunday, she whispered, and immediately wished she hadn't. That closed expanse above her looked too much like the lid of a coffin holding her underground, as underground she almost certainly was. Coaxing her stiffened joints to co-operate, she stood, panning the light around her in a wide arc. Looking, though she hardly dared admit that to herself, to see if these items of Reed's had followed her on their own—or fallen with him.  
  
She was alone.  
  
That was the end of Solomon Grundy, she breathed; but it was closer to a whimper, and remained unanswered.  
  
------------------------------  
  
Trip shone his flashlight beam on the wall in front of him, blinking in the glare that cut back from the polished surfaces. The dark streak of red ran straight up to the right angle between wall and floor, and ended abruptly there, as if the injured party had been dragged clean through the wall. Already, in his mind, he had decided the party in question was Malcolm.  
  
Well either I'm seein' things, Trip muttered, hardly realizing that he was speaking to his flashlight in the absence of a listening ear, or these days that crazy Brit's walkin' through walls.


	24. ONE DOOR CLOSES

ONE DOOR CLOSES  


  
The pool glinted darkly in a falloff of light that had no definite source. There was utter, impenetrable night all around, but the ripples that eddied on the water shivered white on a surface like ebony, as reflective as silver.  
  
He had seen this pool before, but the rest of the memory did not immediately come to mind. There was only that shimmering light where no light fell, and the old, angry scream of a bleeding wound in his left shoulder. There was a familiarity to both, and an alien hue cast over them still that was anything but familiar. The black may contain anything, but an apathy that was not his own diffused that hungry growl in the pit of his stomach, the growl that told him danger was near, and that it was time to act. He sat back on his heels at the water's edge, clutching his hand to the wound in mimicry of every other wound he had ever sustained, although this one barely bothered him.  
  
He blinked, knowing he had waked, upright and in this very pose, although to his knowledge he had neither slept nor been knocked unconscious. This simply _was_.  
  
There were movements in the black water, a ghost of gray that glided like a fish, the dark cutting away to either side of it, its wake flecked with a faint, rising steam. He had seen something like this before, once, breezing across the surface and never reaching the depths. Only bigger, cutting not through water but through night; a ship, voyaging among the stars. He extended his hand, palm down, and hovered it, unconcerned, over the spire of steam curling up from the pool. It scolded, but that, like his shoulder, only hurt in the most academic way.   
  
The ship, or rather its smoky image warped by a water that moved without breeze and shone without light, was approached by another shape, one that spread and billowed like a cloud to swallow the ship in its reaching folds. This he knew only in the most instinctive way; it was no memory of his, but it was there, planted in his brain like a seed in a flowerbed.   
  
He had seen this vision before.  
  
But I stopped it, he murmured, and as his voice struck the water tiny notes rang from it like music, struck from its slick shine as a hammer strikes chimes from a bell.   
  
_She would love this_, he thought, thinking wistfully of her constant assertions that she heard the patterns of voices like music . . . but he no longer knew just who the she' he thought of was. He thought she might be important to this, somehow . . . that he had something to do for her . . . but it was gone, as most of his senses beyond watching the water were gone. And what had he stopped? What had he done to stop it? He had seen this vision and it was gone, he remembered making a decision that would avert this disaster . . . but the decision itself meant nothing. It had been stopped because he was here. That was all.  
  
_You did stop what would have come, had you done nothing_, a voice whispered. It blew spreading circles in the water in its citric breeze, shattering the image, making no music as his own voice had done._ You removed the danger from your ship when you left it. But what you did has still to be concluded, and it won't be easy. They'll try to mislead you, to hold you back, to lie to you. They may even turn you against me. But the things you carry must be destroyed, and the beings that gave them to you must be prevented from doing this to another host. You knew that, even if you didn't want to admit it. Why else did you come here? Here, of all places?  
_   
Where is here? he asked, three notes clinking sweetly up to him as he spoke. I mean . . . I've seen this pool. But it doesn't belong here. What is this?  
  
_You hit your head. Perhaps it's only a dream. Don't you want to stop them, is that it? Stop the people who silenced you, who want to silence everybody that stands in their way as I stand in their way? They did the same to the Vulcan, you know.  
_   
He raised his head, knowing this, at least, should elicit some emotion in him. The Vulcan. Without a name, as the she' had been without a name, still he knew that it was his responsibility. The Vulcan was silenced—what exactly did that mean?—because he hadn't acted quickly enough. Why don't I remember? He dragged the words from his mouth reluctantly, liking the chimes the syllables made on the water, but finding the effort beyond his strength to give. He had no desire to move, to talk or to ask questions . . . he simply wanted to be. To watch this phantom play in the pool beside him and forget the persistent pull of duty and responsibility that never quite receded as his memories and self had done.   
  
He was sick of responsibility.  
  
_Your ship needs protecting as much as I do, as my race does. These responsibilities are not yours to evade. I chose you for many, many reasons, as did they, but the one I never told you was this: I knew that you would get the job done._ The voice stirred shadows and waves, swept a scent his way that tingled in his nose and on his tongue with that same, itching familiarity . . . and was gone. _Think of the people that need you. Your friends, your ship. My enemies will hold them responsible should you fail to stop them, here, while you have the chance.  
_   
he echoed, feeling the name come unbidden, breaking through the shroud of nothing that belonged to him, placing itself in his mouth as if it wanted to be heard. It tasted exquisite as it was spoken; here was something, he knew, that belonged to him, as this place once had but now did not. And T'Pol is . . .  
  
Silenced. He shivered, understanding of the word's many possible meanings shuddering back into his mind with a sour jolt. Ideas, fragments and names and disconnected words he didn't understand flooded in, a piece at a time, like a roll of film fed through a viewfinder one slide after another.  
  
he exclaimed . . . and the spell was broken. Malcolm planted one shaky foot in the mud beneath him and levered himself upright, turning away from the hypnotic pool and hunting through the gloom for the figure he knew he would find. What have they done with her? Where is she?  
  
_That's what you should be asking them_, it said. And then it said no more.   
  
Reed found himself lying in a darkened room, alone with his furious heartbeat and a rage he hadn't felt since the day he ran from the dinner table when he was six years old. He closed his eyes, and tried to breathe, and to think of the stars.  
  
-----------------------------  
  
he murmured again, but his mouth had dried into a cracked salt plane and for an instant he worried his ears had suffered damage from the knock on the head on the way down here—the word was muddied, sound barely heard through the veil of waking. Though awake, impressions of his surroundings continued to make themselves known as if he surfaced through a progression of senses like the layers of an onion; the feel of a cool, but not chill, surface beneath him, a mild sensation of tepid air on his face . . . swollen sound without depth, carried without a breeze. The scent of lemonade hung heavily in the air, a wave of incense tingling faintly on his skin as it sizzled in his bones.   
  
Reed explored the hard surface on which he lie, grazing gentle fingertips across the unremarkable material with the deft movements he had practiced all his life to perfect. This stuff, oddly pliant and bemusingly unflawed by the scratches and imperfections found in any material he could call to mind, had him at a disadvantage; it was like nothing he had ever felt before. But the process of analyzing his surroundings scientifically helped him to remain calm, and smoothed his professional demeanor down over his blooming temper like a damp rag smothering a fire.   
  
Beneath the soda scent he could smell nothing in here but his own troubled sweat, and that absence irritated him in a way he couldn't describe; he would say that it felt like death if he wasn't in the unique position he was, and hadn't known better. He thumped his fist on the ground in frustration, and the stifled echoes it woke did not immediately fade, but the action itself stirred him a little. He would achieve nothing lying here, hearing only half of every sound, and too nervous to open his eyes again at all. Reeds didn't take things lying down.  
  
But what to do, that's the question, Lieutenant. It was a good thing to ask himself—had he come all this way, had he put Hoshi in danger and lied to the captain, only to spend his energies in running away from the very impostors he had intended to confront?  
  
_(They'll try to mislead you, to hold you back, to lie to you. They may even turn you against me)  
_   
He didn't like to admit that the temptation was there, and the Reed fire burned too brightly for it to be much beyond a passing desire—but it was there, however brief. To just play along until they could get away. To run this rat maze, find Hoshi, and leave. He was not quite considering it, but far from dismissing it cold.  
  
He slowly drew up his eyelids, letting only a murky brown horizon of light in, and made himself breathe. The memory returned reluctantly, in snatches; the floor, suddenly slanting away beneath them; the tunnel dividing, _morphing_ before his very eyes, separating Hoshi from him deliberately. Pain had oozed into his dream—if dream it was—as the blood oozed from the wound in his shoulder, seeping and drying in the cotton of his sleeve, red darkening to a glutinous black. He pressed his fingertips gingerly to the weeping wound and immediately withdrew them again, hissing in air between his teeth, feeling foolishly giddy. It was a handicap he despised incurring, and couldn't even remember acquiring, but at least the pain and the blood were real, human, _living_. Glancing around at this place he could see and touch and smell and hear, it was good to know that he, at least, was real. That gave him power.  
  
He was lying flat on the smooth black floor of an empty, curving room. It was not merely cylindrical, with bending walls and a parallel ceiling and floor; it was like being inside an opaque black bubble. The ceiling above him was a shadowed dome, and the floor he lie on concave. Although no source of light was apparent, he could see the indefinite shape of his own body, and enough of a shade to make out the shape of the room.  
  
He stood up, steadying himself on one wall, looking around him with piqued curiosity and more than a little annoyance. Like the floor', the wall he touched felt pliable, rubbery. He could dig his fingers in, leaving indentations, and then slowly watch them fade as the alien material reformed. Had he not known who must have put him here and why, there would be a fascinating beauty to this place.  
  
And then he noticed something that set his heart pounding in his ribs.  
  
There were no doors.   
  
There were no openings of any sort. The room was utterly impenetrable. He must have fallen from an opening, somewhere, from that tunnel to this jumped-up holding pen . . . and where there was a way in, there must be a way out.  
  
In his mind, he sounded confident, but in his heart he knew better.  
  
He tapped meticulously around the walls, scanning for a seam or a join that may conceal a door so flush it went unnoticed in the low light; but no. Whatever way in there had been—assuming they had not beamed him in—it was not there now.  
  
If ever there was a time when your help would be appreciated, he said, to the featureless air, then now would be it.  
  
And, sure enough, there came the fresh scent of lemonade, carried on an impossible breeze.  
  
-----------------------------  
  
That _melting_ image played on his mind long after he had ceased to expect a further reply, and the foaming, by now sickening scent began to recede to only a background hum. The cells in his blood had activated, and it was answer enough, in its way, to let him know the help he asked for was a distinct possibility.  
  
The tunnel must have melted open before him up there, and fused as seamlessly back into one behind him, or else there would evidence of his entrance now.  
  
Reed experimented gradually with pressing his fingers into the wall, although it was some time before he felt it an acceptable risk; he was distrustful of most that was unknown to him, an occupational hazard, but this changeable institute left him more distrustful than usual. Some force was working against him, and although he also felt the help of a force equally omnipotent, he was out of his depth. His fingers left five small round marks in the black foam rubber stuff. He pressed a little harder and the marks remained a little longer. And again, harder still; once again the indentations, five evenly spaced circles, took a longer time to mend.  
  
Reed narrowed his focus on the enduring comparison of bread dough that formed in his mind, bricking the pain of his torn left arm behind a mental barrier he would not allow it to cross. It was a distraction, and he distanced himself from it; not by telling himself that it didn't hurt, but by telling himself it didn't matter.   
  
He was an old hand at fencing off pain.  
  
He frowned, remembering with sudden, desperate fondness the bread his mother used to make when she felt like it. The dough struck a chord, the way it yielded under her hands, the way it molded and morphed until finally . . .   
  
Until finally, it broke. It broke apart but broken dough always kneads together again good as new. Carefully he closed his fingers tight into a fist and pressed it knuckles-first into the wall, watching it sink slowly past his palm, to the base of his thumb and over his wrist, capturing it completely. As his hand disappeared, the dough-like substance began to close back around it.   
  
Suddenly, very suddenly, the slight pressure on his knuckles was gone. His hand slipped out up to the wrist into whatever was beyond, the wall forming back around his lower arm where it passed through.   
  
His hand was free.   
  
His breath began to quicken as he moved his arm freely in the wall, the foamy stuff—in technical terms, the more yielding, rearrangeable atoms of an unstable hologram—slipping around oddly against his skin. He could barely assimilate the wild concept forming in the back of his mind, one reason why against a hundred why not. He shoved every one of them back furiously, and gritted his teeth. If he didn't think about it, then he would be all right.  
  
It's only a hologram. And not a very good one, by all appearances. You can't stay in here the rest of your life. He breathed out harshly, expelling all the carbon dioxide in his body with a forceful shudder. He moved his tongue around his mouth, tasting the flatness of the air—air which, in this enclosed space, may run out very quickly unless his captors were kind enough to resequence the atoms, something he felt certain they could do—confirming to himself in any way he could that his assumptions were correct. That this was holographic, that somehow the Dark Man was altering its structure and allowing him to escape, something far beyond the abilities of a human being.  
  
He tugged in a good lungful of new air, and held it in tight. This was not going to be easy, that he knew, but there was always the knowledge that he could come back. Probably. _Probably_ could come back. It would have to be enough. Taking the deepest breath yet, Reed pressed his right shoulder, the strongest, against the wall, and channeled all his strength, all his determination, into it, pushing not from his shoulder but from way down in his gut. The wall began to give under the pressure. He leaned a little harder, bent his head into it, his hip. He fought the vicious instinct to gasp as the substance began to seal around his forehead, its wet, spongy feel gliding down the rise of his brow toward his eyes, capturing one ear completely. He must not gasp and give up his carefully stored air. He locked it down tight behind a knotted throat and clenched teeth, closed his eyes, and waited for the cold, squelching stuff to close over his face. It slid over his nose and mouth, to his chin, his shoulder and the whole right side of his body following . . .   
  
. . . and it was then, encased in a wall and using up his last dregs of breath, that he met sudden, unmovable resistance.


	25. ANOTHER DOOR OPENS

ANOTHER DOOR OPENS  


  
Reed did something he rarely, if ever, did.   
  
He panicked.  
  
Something solid rested just within the foam, an obstruction he pushed against and pushed against, but to no avail. He thrust himself backwards, bodily heaving his weight away to make a tactical retreat; but the substance clung to him like a leech, holding him fast in the wall. Clearly if one faction wanted him to escape, the other just as firmly did not.  
  
Reed could feel a tingle like the fizz of rising bubbles in his lungs, and his eyes were beginning to burn behind the lids. His air was running out. Leaning back was only holding him here like a fly in a spider's web, and any attempt at gaining leverage only stuck the hand or foot he pushed with into the stuff which had once been playdough, but which was now molasses. So, with a sudden, full-body heave, he changed tactics—he threw himself forwards again.  
  
He had been leaning with his every strength and the give was sudden; Reed crashed to the floor beyond with a brutal smack, the last remnant of breath clapped briskly from his lungs like compacted bellows, and his skull bouncing off the ground. He lie, that lukewarm, now blessedly solid material under his cheek and chest, dragging in air thankfully, seeing nothing but the shifting suggestion of colorless forms surrounding him. Wherever he was, he knew only two things; there was oxygen, and although he could make out the faded gray curves of his own hand on the floor, it was horribly dark.  
  
Malcolm Reed was neither a faint-heart nor a fool; he knew that his escape from that billiard ball holding cell had been orchestrated by something beyond his own human ability. That either the Dark Man's influence had infiltrated this, the energy-to-matter creations of a malevolent, unseen enemy . . . or those impostors had _allowed_ him to escape for reasons of their own. No escape, perhaps, but a release. For what, he was unsure; but, whatever the reason, they had provided him the opportunity he needed.   
  
He only wished he knew who to thank for it.   
  
For a moment he lie, inert and giddy, feeling the blood flooding back to his head. The dizziness passed a little more with each hungry breath, and slowly his night vision settled onto the gray, washed-out walls of the place into which he had fallen.  
  
Hands feeling their way to either side along sheer walls of the same dishonestly perfect texture, Malcolm stumbled to his feet, gritting his teeth against the wrench in his torn shoulder, and stood unsteadily, wedging himself upright in the narrow space with both hands.  
  
He was in a long, dim corridor, lit from no light source he could see to an eerie bluish glow like stifled phosphoresce. This corridor curved on indefinitely; there were no doors or vents or openings in sight. As Reed took in these surroundings, he could slowly begin to make out his pulse thudding like a dull hammer against the inside of his skull, and his chest involuntarily began to tighten; because, as he looked, he became more and more certain that this was a trap. But, much as he knew he would be playing their games, he had no choice but to follow the corridor around until he could find that one detail he might exploit. Not holding out much hope, he tested each wall once, found them to be solid this time, and walked.   
  
-----------------------------  
  
He walked for far too long and always the corridor swept away at his right hand, obscuring his view of the length of it without ever turning sharply enough to be a corner. He found not a single door, window, air vent or hatch. Every plate that made up the walls and the floor did not only lie flush as the blocks of the Great Pyramid at Giza, but seemed melted together so precisely the joins were invisible—if joins there even were, something about which he had his doubts. They may simply be decorative lines scored into walls as much one piece as that globe had been. Both walls ran on unbroken, not a single rivet protruding from the sleek surface. Occasionally, for thoroughness' sake, he tested each of the walls, traced his fingers along it, prodded it. It was completely solid, and did not budge.  
  
He walked, telling himself with an absolute lack of conviction that around the next curve there would be a door—locked, probably, but still a real, _honest_ door—and that if he gave up now he may be forfeiting his best and only chance to escape, trap or no trap. He walked but there was only so long he could go on before he was forced to realize he was going around in circles. The corridor was so uniform that he could have passed his start point five or six times, and not known it.   
  
He would have to think of something else.  
  
Malcolm had done what any good tactical officer would do—he had circled this pointless maze and taken in enough information of his surroundings to know that his best course of action was to wait. He sat, his back to the unyielding wall, and rested his head against it. He stared at the unending ceiling, feeling the raw edges of his shoulder wound rubbing one against the other, and screwed his eyes shut against the rising queasiness. Steeling himself against the pain, Reed fumbled to unfasten his uniform, peeling the sweat-blackened cotton away from his upper body. The fibers caught in the raw edges of the gash and he hissed as they snagged against the flesh, but he gritted his teeth and nudged the undershirt aside to examine the damage.   
  
It was a deep cut some four inches across from front to back; a thin stream of blood black as treacle trickled from it and slipped wetly down his arm. He dared not disturb the wound, but skated his fingertips through the red-black trail that oozed from it, smearing oily red across the skin below, and rubbed it between his fingers. He raised his hand to his nose, and sniffed the spot of blood; the too-familiar stench of lemonade was overpowering.  
  
He was about to ease the undershirt back into place when something about the injury caught his eye; already, the weeping edges were drying black. And another, pertinent fact; this wound overlaid, exactly, the scar he had carried for most of his life. In fact, impossibly, it _was _the wound from all those years ago . . . spontaneously reopened, without an apparent catalyst to do so.  
  
As he watched, the blood dried completely to close the open gash, and the scabbed line began to recede. In that same, remarkable fashion, it began to melt away. He looked on, openmouthed, as the cut healed completely.   
  
What remained was unbroken skin, overlaid by a bloodied uniform with no apparent cause of the stain to show for it. The scar, the one he had carried since he fell in the pool as a boy, was gone.   
  
_(When it's healed . . . then I'll tell you what you want to know)_  
  
Whatever else lie at the end of this maze, he now knew that the time had come for the last of his questions to be answered.  
  
-----------------------------  
  
Although his feet had stopped, his mind continued in repeating circles. He waited for the wave to pass. As a boy he had learnt to tolerate sickness, hardened by practise to allergic reactions. The wooziness was probably an amalgamation of causes, the blow to the head, the lack of oxygen . . . and of course, he had neither slept nor eaten for the past couple of days. He felt a distant twinge of guilt at the knowledge that Hoshi had willingly given up her own sleep to sit with him, but he carefully put it aside, fencing that stirring concern over her disappearance away from his current train of thought. He could do nothing for her or for any of the friends he had sworn to protect unless he could first save himself.   
  
He had still to learn who would prove the victor in their chess game.  
  
The sick sweat streaming down his back and pooling in his palms had made his skin icy as it cooled, and he shifted position, his feet planted squarely on the floor in front of him and his knees drawn up at sharp angles. He laid his palms flat on the floor to either side of him, rested his head back, and willed himself to stay lucid.   
  
It took a while for it to sink in, but after a moment, Reed noticed that the palms of his hands were getting warm. At first he dismissed it as a symptom of his illness, but as he concentrated on that heat radiating between his splayed fingers he accepted the floor itself was hot.  
  
He fell forward on his knees, a spark catching in his mind and a growing hope fanning the flame. The one variable in this sterile corridor could not be a coincidence. Chances were it was the Dark Man, trying to show him a way out.  
  
_You're assuming there is a way out_, he reprimanded himself. _They really could have beamed you in, you know.  
_   
But he ignored the voice, and carried on.   
  
He scrutinized the floor plate where he had been resting, pressed his palm and then his knuckles to it, and found it was uncomfortably hot and growing hotter by the minute. It had been cool, he felt sure, when he sat down. So the plate had heated on contact, he supposed, and in the absence of a better explanation, he guessed weight must have been the trigger. And that, at least, made sense; he wouldn't have noticed or perhaps wouldn't have set off a reaction all the time he was mobile, only passing over the sections which would respond to him. At last, he had a lead. Good or bad, mechanism of friend or enemy, it was a lead.   
  
Hardly daring to hope his theory would be supported, he touched the plate next door.  
  
It was stone cold.  
  
Reed laughed giddily and stood up, caught as he straightened by a flash flood of light-headedness, and cast his eyes over the floor plates. He must have hit his head harder than he thought; the formless light was dancing, and his laughter bounced like a stone rattling in a tin, thudding heavily from wall to wall. He breathed, and made himself refocus.  
  
That was when he saw the clue he had been hoping for.  
  
On some of the floor plates, emblazoned in lines of thin blue fire as fine as a spider's web, was a number.  
  
-----------------------------  
  
He stared stupidly at those numbers for an eternity. They made no sense. He had always been gifted in number sequences and logic problems, had always tested well, but these made no sense. There was no reason for them to be there but for him to see, and no discernible pattern in their organized jumble, though they held a semblance of deliberance about them.  
  
No. They _were_ going to make sense. He was going to make them.   
  
A little help, here? Reed voiced to the silence. There was no reply from the Dark Man. Guess you don't know, either, he muttered.  
  
He stood facing the way he had been walking, so the numbers would read intelligibly the right way up, and mentally charted each one.  
  
  
8 14   
--------------------------  
10 18 12   
--------------------------  
14 18   
--------------------------  
16 22   
---------------------------  
22 18   
---------------------------  
  
---------------------------  
26   
---------------------------  
20   
  
And on one, faintly there in those same calligraphed lines of light, was a sequence:  
  
32, 38, 30, 34, 28, 34, 26, 30, 24, 30, 22, 26, 20.  
  
He hoped.  
  
The grayness was blotting out his eyesight again, and for the first time the vague fuzziness began to worry him. What _was_ the matter with him? He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear them, and studied the sequence again. His head ached gently.  
  
A 32. Then a 38. Easy enough, if this key obeyed the rules of most number sequences. The difference was a 6. Then a 30. Take 8 from 38 and you get 30. So: add 6, subtract 8. But there the sequence changed.  
  
From 30, it did not skip to 36, as he expected, but 34. A difference of 4, not 6. So his sequence so far was add 6, subtract 8, add 4. Breathing hard, Reed looked at the next number, praying it rose by 6. Praying it was a 40.  
  
It was 28.  
  
He palmed the sweat from his eyes, knowing something was seriously wrong. It seemed the nearer he came to a solution the sicker he became, and it occurred to him to wonder if the nanobots were somehow infecting him to slow him down. But he didn't have the time for such foolish luxuries as waiting for his vision to stop kaleidoscoping. These beings could decide to change the rules at any time.  
  
A 28. A drop of 6 from 34.   
  
He looked at the next. If it was not a rise of 6 this time, then his suspicions of a sequence were either incorrect, or it was hideously long.  
  
It was a 34.  
  
Reed breathed a sigh of relief, and moved onto the next. A 26. A fall of 8. At last, success.  
  
The sequence fell into place from there, ending with a 20. Add 6, subtract 8, add 4, subtract 6. And 20 was the last of the key.  
  
There was a 20 on the floor plate nearest his left foot. He closed his eyes and stepped squarely onto it, all the time feeling indefinably foolish. After all, it was a little too much like a bad science fiction movie to take seriously.  
  
But if this was somehow the Dark Man's attempt at aid, perhaps influenced by a flagrant misinformation about humans, it just might get him out of here. However contrived the means.  
  
As he stepped on it, he stooped, tapping the back of his hand to the plate. It was warming beneath him as his weight pressed on it. The corridor was swimming at the edges as he searched out the next plate, a 26. He stepped onto it and that, too, began to heat.  
  
He traveled the rest easily, though every step dimmed his eyesight and cost him with a vicious flare of pain in his head. 18, 22, 16, 22, 14, 18, 12, 18, 10, 14, 8. As he stepped on the 8, he glanced about the walls expectantly, waiting for a mysterious door to glide open or a siren to betray his presence outside of that first impossible cell.  
  
As the 8 warmed, the floor disappeared from beneath him. No movement, no sense of swooping away or dissolving into nothing. It just vanished.  
  
He fell heavily into the black below.


	26. PLAYING ON A PRAYER

PLAYING ON A PRAYER  


  
The isolated biosign some storys beneath his own had moved from its original location and even as Trip watched was stuttering forward, albeit with a hesitance he would expect only from Hoshi. Some jarring, intangible notion had convinced him that the blood trail was Reed's, and that Hoshi was the source of the readings he picked up. That the mysterious circumstances surrounding Lieutenant Reed these last few days had either altered his physical properties so much that they no longer registered as human, or that those circumstances had gotten him killed.   
  
_Kidnapped_, Trip amended, fiercely. _Gotten him kidnapped_. If he was in such high demand among unknown impostors these days, and if the nanobots were of any great value, then there was every reason to believe he may have been spirited away by transporter. That what Malcolm carried would be too valuable to lose by harming the organic host in which they nested. No, that blip he watched with such headaching intensity must be Hoshi. This understandable lack of activity proved it, in some small way; Malcolm, behind that often graceful wall of professional fervor, was a man of action—restless, impatient, and somewhat rash in his decisions. He moved like a man raised in heavy gravity and transplanted to theirs, barely leaving a footprint behind him—something Trip had been, in truth, a little envious of at times. Hoshi was a more cautious creature, capable of feisty show when her situation was cushioned by a degree of safety—or when threatened. Trip recalled fondly the time she had worked round the clock to release them from a sentient, all-assimilating creature in their cargo bay, as if her own life, and not theirs, had been in jeopardy. She responded far more fiercely to threats against her friends than to herself. If that wasn't Hoshi down there, then Trip was the white rabbit.   
  
He had tested his communicator at intervals and turned up nothing but silence, every time speaking to a deaf ear or an unowned communicator that would provide no answer. The corridors did not even echo with the ring of his footsteps.  
  
This communications silence and the comforting activity of that single biosign answered the question Trip had been aching to ask himself, but had not; he had even shied away from it, not liking the vagueness it conjured. Did he return to the ship for help, knowing all was not well, or did he locate that blip that may or may not be Hoshi Sato, and hope not to flounder himself? Was one worth the risk of a second, himself, and if he failed to bring help, then a third, Malcolm?  
  
It was the oldest criticism any Vulcan had ever made of humans, a criticism since echoed by races newer to them but every bit as skeptical. His kind placed the importance of the individual every bit as high as that of the majority, and the greater good was not always the ultimate goal.   
  
Trip replaced his communicator with a snap that sealed his decision as if locking it behind a closed door; he had only to recall Hoshi's fiercely quashed nerves on that first of many away missions, so many months ago, to know which way his path lie.   
  
Trip set his shoulders, and descended into the deep.  
  
-------------------------------  
  
The Grand Old Duke of York . . .  
  
She halted, waiting for the return of an echo she knew would not come.   
  
He had ten thousand men . . .  
  
Hoshi straightened herself resolutely, and smoothed the rumpled creases from her uniform with coaxing palms. To an observer, her fastidiousness and the set of her shoulders would give an impression of professionalism and control—had her wavering, small voice and her stuttering grip on the precious flashlight not betrayed her.   
  
No echoes stirred.  
  
He marched them up to the top of the hill . . . and he marched them down again.  
  
She was beginning to falter in finding new nursery rhymes to repeat. Hoshi had recited every piece in her eclectic repertoire, from I'm a Little Teapot' to this, The Grand Old Duke of York', oddly another English rhyme. She supposed the time she had spent in Reed's company of late had impressed all things British indelibly on her mind.  
  
The flashlight was her one blessing in this unpleasant twist in their mission. She had come along so he wouldn't be alone, but here they were, separated, and wherever he was, he most likely wandered alone, too. She had worried that her good fortune in finding the flashlight was his bad, but her memory of the previous night in sickbay brightened her concern—he had been able to see in the dark. And wherever he was . . . wherever the impostors controlling this hologram had swept him away to . . . may not even _be_ dark as her surroundings were.  
  
She hoped it was not.  
  
Almost as Hoshi stepped through the gaping doorway ahead, it liquefied and fused together like party streamers in a breeze, into a solid wall at her back, sealing her from making any retreat. Trembling badly now, Hoshi tried to forget that image and swept her flashlight around the dark space she had entered. It was a small, featureless room, smaller than the first, and it, like the first, boasted a single, yawning exit.  
  
And when they were up they were up, and when they were down they were down, she murmured, and ran her fingers over the solid square shape of the communicator in her pocket. Useless underground, and so far from _Enterprise_, useless when Reed no longer had his; but if they came after her, any of them, this may be her one lifeline.  
  
And when they were only halfway up, they were neither up nor down, she stammered, as she went through.  
  
The doorway morphed closed behind her.   
  
-------------------------------  
  
He waited for the echo to bounce its way back to him, reflected wall-to-wall like light from facing mirrors; but his wait was a long one, and the dull shudder he received was little reward for his trouble. Trip cautiously ventured his head and shoulders through the open maw ahead of him, through shredded metal edges like twin rows of teeth, and peered first up and then down into the turbolift shaft's utter darkness, feeling conspicuously like a lion tamer in a circus placing his head in the cat's mouth. His flashlight barely penetrated so much as a few meters in either direction. He had thrown his voice down hard as a curveball, hoping to gauge this shaft's depth by the answering reverberations from the bottom, but his half-hearted shout had been spiraling downwards a long time before he heard a returning whisper, too far away for the exact distance to be of any real concern.   
  
There was no light whatsoever in the gallingly odorless air of the lift shaft. Trip muttered to himself, tucked his flashlight between his teeth, and let his fingers skip along the surface of the sheer inner wall, methodically tracing for any signs of a maintenance ladder. He was under no strict obligation to descend this shaft, his mission had not been to get himself killed; but if he turned back now, he knew he would have difficulty in sleeping at night. He hunted for the ladder which logic—an expression he cordially despised and despaired of using—dictated must be here, within reach of the forced doors. He was half in a frenzy for playing penny hero and half slowed by a gradual onset of reluctancy; he almost hoped he didn't find it, or found it too damaged to use. Any opportunity to excuse himself the climb into a decaying institute somehow left in ruin in the space of two days would be welcomed, but he was not willing, not under any circumstances, to excuse himself. No matter how or why this place was abandoned, he wouldn't run scared. Yet.  
  
Abruptly his fingers stumbled onto the first rung; they brushed against protruding metal, unafflicted by the decay he witnessed elsewhere in this institute. He curled his fingers around the bar and found a good grip before trusting it with a little of his weight, tugging until the veins stood out on his arm and his knuckles paled; then he tested a little more, and a little more, finally all. Reaching blindly down, he caught the rung below in his other hand and kicked out for the lower ones with his toe caps. They struck metal, chiming an alarming echo down the length of the shaft, and finally were set firmly on the maintenance ladder.  
  
If the lift car either suspended above or shattered below him began to move suddenly, then he was toast. They—whoever the they' who owned the institute but were not the Vulcan scientists _were_—would be peeling bits of engineer off the ceiling or floor for the best part of a month. And the prospect of sudden lift activity did not leave him much room for confidence. He didn't know what struck him as being so wrong with this institute, besides that it had changed so much in so short a time . . . but he didn't like it.  
  
Trip began to climb downwards, feeling in the dark for one rung after the next. His racing breath murmured around him like old church bells slowly ringing into silence.   
  
What if the lift was above him, and suddenly shot down? He'd be flatter than three-day-old lemonade before he even knew what had happened. He'd had no means of checking the lift car's whereabouts prior to his climb. Perhaps it lurked in the net of shadows above, hanging precariously by one damaged cable, in runners slippery with grease; above and unstable, waiting to plummet to its final resting place some stories below. Taking him with it.  
  
Trip climbed steadily, ears tuned for any shimmer of sound in this deep shaft. A sudden breeze whistled past his shoulder. He halted between rungs, listening. He was rewarded with the faintest, slowest grind, a straining sound . . .   
  
The roof above him was creaking ominously. Trip hastened on, hearing the noise deepen and slowly echo back—the voice of the clock against which he raced.   
  
Ah, c'mon, you gotta be kiddin' me, he groaned. He was answered with only further grinding sounds, metal gauging furrows in metal, the whistle of the air current as something heavy sped down the shaft only centimeters away. He felt the breeze on him again as it passed.   
  
Breathing hard, Trip took his flashlight from his mouth, and shone it above him and below, straining his eyes against the black swallowing the beam. Below, a strong gush of air spewed from the side of the shaft, from another opening. Maybe ten meters away.   
  
Something blunt and heavy slammed into the wall beside him.  
  
The lift car was coming down. In pieces.  
  
Where's a transporter when you need one, huh, tell me that? he growled, and hastened on, two rungs at a time, three, making leaps of faith from one to the next that, in the dark, he would never normally dream of making. The ceiling continued to thunder. Risking everything in one gargantuan token, understanding that to climb in regular patterns the five meters or so left to him would never get him to that breath of air in time, Trip decided to play on a prayer. An old expression of his grandmother's, perhaps never founded on any real convictions but nevertheless handed down through generations of Tuckers to describe that single leap of faith—that ultimate gamble that would win or lose all.   
  
Trip closed his eyes, clawed in a pitifully shaky breath that filled his lungs with old, dusty air . . .   
  
. . . and let go.   
  
-------------------------------  
  
Hoshi submitted to the maze that led her and herded her through an underground network, windowless, airless, and lightless, deep into the heart of an institute that did not exist. The thought burrowed into her efforts to keep it away, swimming against the tide; if she was underground, in a building holographic and therefore changeable in every way, then the air she breathed must be holographic too. Real enough to oxygenate her blood, but like those doors something that may vanish at any given moment. The thought made her hyperventilate in sympathy for a phantom suffocation.  
  
She was getting tired and the awful dark beyond her flashlight beam seemed to grow denser as she walked, always moving and never progressing. One door closed, another door opened. Somebody was toying with her, with both of them. The only thing that made her walk was a faint but desperate hope, a double incentive—that she may be allowed to find a way out, or to find Lieutenant Reed. They had been separated for a reason, that she knew, but it was clear she was not the one they wanted.   
  
She was being diverted, occupied, perhaps led to one definite goal, perhaps not; but if these beings had intended to kill her, they would have done so by now. She was no match, it would have been easy. No. They were, they must be, merely detaining her while they attended to more important matters. She had to believe that, had to believe she was in no real danger.  
  
Whoever they' were, it was Malcolm Reed that had captured their interest.   
  
-------------------------------  
  
Trip's spread hands poised open as he fell to grab the rungs five meters below—a nasty jolt to his joints, no doubt, but the only way to cover five meters in two seconds, and a shock he was prepared for. He had a keen catch and a good eye, should have no trouble in regaining his hold; but for that split second in time, he was left entirely to gravity in a free fall that would shatter every bone in his body should he fail.   
  
One second, an eternity, playing on the prayer he had chosen to risk. Chancing he would lose, and lose it all, including his life. Chancing he would win, could catch hold, and would survive it.   
  
His splayed fingers glanced against the ladder, twisted, tightened. Both hands found the rung as he had hoped. A shockwave jolted through his bones, jarring shoulder sockets and teeth, and then he was still, and it held.  
  
There was a snap as the rung broke.   
  
Trip clawed hastily at the next, missed it, scrambled as he fell to take hold of the cold metal bars his hands grazed against . . . and found purchase, catching the last before the ladder discontinued for as far as his eye could see into the deep. His communicator was jolted from his unzipped pocket and spun balletically end-over-end as it fell into the black at his feet. He clung with both goose fleshed arms to the ladder, wrapping himself around it, gasping for air and waiting for his shocked eyesight to return. The squall of the groaning lift car crescendoed above him like the creak of an ancient galleon braving high winds.   
  
Trip had dropped past the opening in the shaft wall, by the size of it now he was close enough to see an air vent of some kind, maybe a maintenance hatch. It blew its pale draft out a few rungs above, and thankfully, Trip clambered up those he had missed, caught the edge, and threw himself inside. As he fell into the vent beyond, his momentum carrying him from the rim and off down the slide-like bottom of the pipe, an almighty crash shattered the silence. Behind him, the shaft collapsed in on itself, great clouds of choking dust pounding up to him, the sharp impact reverberating through the vent plates over which he shot— he slid unstoppably down into the vent with no hope of stopping.   
  
Below him in this air vent, very, very faint, came the chopping burr of the ventilation system, still fully operational.   
  
-------------------------------  
  
_You can breathe again now, you know._   
  
He had forgotten to. Plummeting blindly down the tubular vent around unseen curves and twists, Trip had very nearly forgotten to. Tentatively, he forced a breath past the blockade of trapped air in his throat, feeling the gush on his dry lips. His ears popped.   
  
Below him, the purr became a thunder. A white noise continuous and pounding as a waterfall punched up to him, louder as he slid on his thigh down the virtually vertical tube, accelerating towards the sound, grazing his right leg on the rivets that held the vent's multiple sections together as one piece.   
  
The chopping, whirring sound was near. Very, very near.   
  
He was flung around a bend in the shaft into a hurricane rush of air that blasted up around him, shooting by so swiftly that he could not breathe. There was only a crushing burn in his lungs; the oxygen did not seem to come. He waited for the pocket to canon past but it did not; it did not lessen. This was no airless pocket.   
  
He forced his head down into the rush, his eyes closed to slits, and tried to focus. For a moment his eyes watered, stinging so badly he couldn't see a blind thing; but he dragged his sleeve across his face, and looked again.   
  
The fan blades were still spinning. And he was careering unstoppably towards them.


	27. EIGHT A WISH

EIGHT A WISH  


  
Each doorway was identical to the last, first drifting open like a body of water breaking in two then pooling together behind her. It was a maze with no turns, no forks, no corners; she merely took the exits presented to her. Every room was the same.  
  
And then Hoshi came to a room that was _not_ the same. In fact, it was barely a room at all.   
  
She found herself baby stepping out onto a narrow ledge, the gaping doorway at her back and darkness in front, looking out over an abyss deeper than the foundations of mountains. To her left ran a sheer wall of sheet metal, climbing to impenetrable shadows and a ceiling shrouded from view in black mist, yawning down below into a chasm whose bottom she could not see.   
  
Her path ended abruptly with that ledge no wider than the span of her stretched hand. Hoshi looked back over her shoulder into the maze she had left, then out over the chasm. There was no logical reason for this wake, no purpose for it she could see; but, she was learning, _they_ needed no other reason than to lead her away from Malcolm. Whatever lie behind, she felt sure that he was that way, and she was helpless to go in any but this.  
  
As she looked out into the vast underground cavern, Hoshi noticed a shimmer in the air like the quiver of a Bunsen flame, and a faint crackle shot through her. The hairs on the back of her neck began to tingle. Then, drawing itself from thin air, first a mist and then a translucent bubble and finally an opaque mass, a stepping-stone the shape and size of a dinner plate materialized at her feet. Then a second, a third, creating a bridge across the space, supported on nothing but air and stretching as far as the eye could see. She could not make out the far end; her light, powerful as it was, did not extend that far. The platforms floated, bobbing minutely like lilies on a pond, looking very much like something she didn't want to step onto.   
  
Ah-uh, no way, forget it, Hoshi told the singing air firmly. She turned back the way she had come. The door had disappeared, leaving her stranded on the ledge with no way to go but forwards.   
  
she muttered, eyeing the first of the disembodied stepping-stones with dislike. Okay, I'll do it. But if I break anything, you're paying my medical expenses.  
  
She didn't even know for certain who she was talking to.   
  
Hoshi raised her eyes skywards, and her shoulders shook with each breath she devoured in readiness; she had always been a little afraid of heights.   
  
She stepped from the ledge onto the first stepping-stone. It sank with her weight, descending a few centimeters like a plastic bottle bobbing on water, then springing back again. She steadied herself with both palms flat against the wall at her left, though it afforded no handholds. She rested her forehead against its cold surface, waiting for her breath to steady as the plate steadied.   
  
One for sorrow, she whispered, instinctively grasping at the first counting rhyme she could bring to mind. She raised her head, opened her eyes, and regarded the second a step away from her. With a quick, light leap, she threw herself forward onto it, thinking wistfully of the ease with which the lieutenant would fly across these buoys, eyes barely looking, toes barely making contact.   
  
Two for joy, she said, defiantly.  
  
And looked at the third.  
  
--------------------------------------  
  
The rivets snagged the sleeve and thigh of his uniform, and the rubber soles of his boots wedged tight across the narrow pipe. Trip stopped his descent roughly two meters above the hacking blades, their chundering, spinning motion bouncing back along the metal, through the screeching soles of his boots, and through him.   
  
Trip poised grimly in the downward tunnel, frightened to breathe, knowing that one wrong move could tear the hooks his clothes had made and send him plummeting down again. At every tiny ripping sound at his sleeve or leg he winced, and tried to haul himself back every available centimeter on his squeaking boots, batting at the sweat-soaked hair that whipped back from his face and struggling to force just one more breath from the onslaught of air. He ached all over from tumbling from wall to wall down the pipe; where there was not a sharp, numbing sting there was a dull, angry throb, but he forced the sensations away.   
  
Clenching his flashlight in his teeth, Trip fumbled his scanner from his hip pocket; he had a chance, albeit a slim chance, of obstructing the blades with it and wedging them still long enough to climb between.   
  
Hearing his own clipped breathing punctuating the roar, Trip lay the scanner flat on the wall of the tube, watching the blades' pattern as they spun. Two, three . . .   
  
Now.  
  
Obeying his own count, Trip released the scanner and watched it skid down the vent, ignoring the sting in his eyes as the air blasted into them and blurred his vision. He fought to see a little longer, but the wind got the better of him and he had to turn his head from the tornado, eyes slitted to watch the scanner's descent.   
  
It sailed between the blades without contact, and on out of sight.  
  
Trip cringed, and as the scanner's distant clatter rattled out of hearing, he heard his uniform wrench free by a few more popping threads.  
  
--------------------------------------  
  
Three for girl, she chanted, shifting her weight from foot to foot as the stone wobbled. Four for boy.  
  
A clattering echo up ahead broke her concentration. Faint in the dark and barely caught by her flashlight four steps on, a small metallic object was ejected from the wall and spun into the chasm below.  
  
Hoshi hesitated, listening for anything more. A few moments passed, with nothing to say for them but the uncomfortable depth of the silence.   
  
She leapt across to five, riding the initial dip and rise of the stepping-stone as a surfer rides a wave. She muttered the next line of the rhyme under her breath, still listening, but even so keeping grim count, one final stubborn assertion for control. She would not be the victim here.  
  
There came a further clatter, heavier than the last, an object tumbling against metal with a greater velocity . . . and this time, alerted by the rattle, Hoshi fixed her flashlight ahead in readiness to see what emerged.   
  
It was a phase pistol.  
  
--------------------------------------  
  
Trip's sweaty hands would barely grasp the phase pistol, and he made himself wait, counting past the moments when his hands shook too badly to risk taking hold of his second chance only to drop it off cue. He closed his eyes, took a shuddering breath, and drew the phase pistol from its holster.  
  
It missed, as the scanner had done.  
  
He dropped his head against the shoulder of his uniform, and dragged in a shuddering, vocal breath that stank strongly of his own sweat, the air pulled sharply around the flashlight still clamped between his teeth. Anything was better than the nothing he smelled everywhere else.   
  
He had missed. Two chances and he had missed them both. He dearly didn't want to do what it appeared he would now be forced to, but there was nothing for it.  
  
He would have to sacrifice his flashlight.   
  
Shaking worse than ever but overtaken with a blissfully unstoppable calm, Trip took the sleek metallic cylinder from his mouth, and weighed it thoughtfully in his hand, judging its weight and its probable velocity on this curve. He could not afford for this tool to chase its own light down the vent, as his scanner and phase pistol had done before it. One chance. He would have this one chance, and if he failed, then he had no other solid item with which to attempt it again.  
  
Trip smiled, grimly. _Ya win some, ya lose some_. But he didn't feel much like laughing. The slow _thump-thump-thump_ of the blades as they revolved shaved the edges from his humor. He had taken the gamble; return for help, or become the help himself. He had played on a wing and a prayer, and he might have lost. Though there was still this chance for success, in his mind he had already failed.  
  
Trip raised his head and narrowed his eyes determinedly into the roar of air washing over him and making the slack of his uniform billow like a sail. The fan turned, space and blade, space and blade, rotating endlessly at his feet.   
  
His boots squealed and the frayed threads hitching him back began to pull alarmingly. Trip rested the flashlight beam downwards to better see what he did, and held his breath, waiting for the moment. With his light leveled the tube glowered with leering shadows, distorted by the curves around him. Two, three . . .   
  
Now.  
  
Trip couldn't watch the flashlight fall. He squeezed his eyes tight into the crook of his elbow, and waited, and hoped. For a moment, the reality that bombarded his ringing ears didn't quite click; something sounded different. There was a squealing whine, and he was sure that he felt a spark sting his ankle. He wanted to believe what he was hearing so much he couldn't allow himself to. Eventually, he had to.  
  
The blades came to a standstill. The roar stopped dead. All was calm, quiet, and he could breathe again and see again.  
  
Sucking in air in swift gulps, Trip let himself drop onto the blades' housing, thanked his lost flashlight on passing, and slipped through to the last stretch of the now still tube.  
  
--------------------------------------  
  
It was on seven that she missed her footing. Her toes found purchase, slipped, and vanished into the space behind.   
  
She hooked her knee beneath her and threw her weight forward, feeling her kneecap connect painfully with the step, and her elbows scrape the far edge. She landed sprawled across the stepping-stone on her stomach, feet kicking out into nothing, one hand clasping the edge. Her startled yelp rocketed away into the unseen distance.  
  
That was what was wrong. Echoes. Suddenly, in place of muffled, underwater vibrations, she heard true echoes.  
  
Hoshi scrambled to her feet, leaning heavily into the solid wall, and panting like a marathon runner in their last white heat. Thank goodness, thank everything, that she had not dropped the flashlight.  
  
Seven for a secret never to be told, she gasped, tearfully. The stepping-stone shuddered beneath her.  
  
--------------------------------------  
  
The silence was broken by a sudden sound as Hoshi stepped across the divide to eight. A wish. Eight a wish.   
  
_I wish I'd never come. _  
  
The sound she now heard was not the aggravated tumble of something falling, not this time; it was the familiar, blood-deep burr of a ventilation system, coming from just above her, and as she steadied on the eighth platform she felt a breeze coming down on her. She turned her flashlight upward and saw an open vent a meter or so above her. The _thump-thump-thump_ of fan blades spinning far above vibrated through the tube to her.   
  
She looked longingly at the opening, wondering if there was any way she could jump and catch the edge. She would rather sit there and wait to be rescued than play this game a moment longer.   
  
But no. If she jumped, missed, and fell, there was little guarantee she would fall back onto this unstable stepping-stone, and not between it and the last. She glanced back along the path she had come, seven suspended plates buoyed gently in a non-existent current. Seven behind, when there may be any number ahead, an infinite number.   
  
No—wait. Six. There were only six behind her. One had disappeared. As she watched, the one furthest from her popped out of existence, and then there were five.   
  
You tricked me! she screamed into the chasm. Screamed to the beings manipulating this institute against her.   
  
Eight a wish. She clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palms, and wished for a miracle.  
  
Hoshi was startled, once again, by a noise, a wrenching sound from up above, and the pounding, dull thud of the fan blades driving down air to her gradually slowing to a halt. The breeze died. Then so did the sound.  
  
She closed her eyes, clamped her flashlight between her teeth, and braced herself to jump for the vent's edge. Behind her, the third stepping-stone blotted itself from the line.  
  
--------------------------------------  
  
She missed.   
  
Her nails scraped the vent's rim, setting her teeth on edge, but her fingertips failed to grab hold. She fell back heavily onto the stepping-stone, knocking every breath from her lungs on impact. The fourth and fifth stepping-stones had dematerialized since last she looked.   
  
She pulled herself up at once, caught by sudden darts of pain in her bones as she straightened. With the speed they were disappearing, her own platform would be gone in less than a minute.   
  
She had taken a nasty jolt as she fell back, and her hair hung shaken across her face. She swept the strands aside shakily, and was startled to encounter a damp heat on her cheeks. She had been crying and not even known it. She palmed these, too, from her face, angry with herself for being so afraid when her friends—no longer colleagues, but friends—so rarely let themselves be shaken. She thought, especially, of T'Pol—her calm, her control, unscathed by the threat of panic that lingered always at the back of her own mind. The captain, too, was so patient, so confident that he was greater than any situation he faced. She wished, desperately, that she could be like them.   
  
Eight a wish.  
  
_Please, please let me get out of this._  
  
The sixth disappeared.   
  
Hoshi bent at the knees and set her sights on the vent above her, words of Reed's from one of her many self-defense lessons returning to her. _Wherever you're looking, Hoshi, that's where you're going to fall.   
_   
She looked at the vent, only the vent, and jumped.  
  
Something from above caught her outstretched hand, and wound warm fingers about her wrist.


	28. THE BLACK ARROW

THE BLACK ARROW  


  
The captain's chair had never felt so uncomfortable. Usually, Jonathan Archer felt as at home in it as ever he had felt anywhere—like he belonged in this chair, that after all his father's struggles to achieve this ship no other had the right to claim this command—but today he fidgeted, the dips and rises of the upholstery that at any other time moulded perfectly to his body refusing to conform to him this time. His eyes combed the viewscreen ahead of him restlessly, finding little interest in the immense star field that could easily hold him enthralled for hours on any other day. He never tired of watching the stars. Perhaps, had he felt that any of the decisions made recently had been his, he would feel better about all of this. But somehow, as he had found all too often since they launched, the situation had gotten out of hand too quickly for him to do anything about it, and he was forced to trust the crew he had hand-picked with the decisions that, in any normal circumstances, would fall to a captain to make.  
  
He should never have allowed Trip to take Shuttlepod Two down to the surface alone, any more than he should have allowed Malcolm to make off with Hoshi and Shuttlepod One. Not because he truly believed the hostage story—he had every confidence that Hoshi's involvement was voluntary—but because of the unpredictability of his armory officer at the present time. They were down there, the three of them, and he had heard nothing since Shuttlepod Two launched. Ensign Kerr had made repeated attempts to make contact, but each hail went unanswered, the com channel devoid of even static. A dampening field of some kind must be in operation over the institute, or else there was some other interference. He was left with a sense not so much of delegation to the three as preemption from them; he hadn't sent them, they just went.  
  
And that made him edgy. He jumped from the chair at last, startling the bridge crew, and began to pace the nerves out of his body—ridding himself, with every footfall, of one more worry, one more confusion.  
  
When he turned back to his seat, he found a small bundle of fur nestled comfortably there like a joey in its mother's pouch. It happened every time. Archer was a naturally patient man with everyone but the Vulcans, and even they were beginning to enjoy a little leeway with him, but this bizarre creature was beginning to get to his frayed nerves just a little.   
  
Porthos, get down from there, he said, wearily.   
  
The dog looked up hopefully, and whimpered.  
  
At the helm, Travis Mayweather attempted to hide a snigger, and Ensign Kerr's shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.   
  
Archer strode across the bridge and plucked the little animal firmly from his chair, placing him pointedly on the deck. Now how many times have I told you, he said, not unkindly, that you're not to sit in my chair every time I stretch my legs?  
  
I think it's called pacing, sir, Travis ventured.   
  
Archer ignored the ensign, but offered a polite, weary smile. Perhaps the comment would be frowned upon by most in Starfleet, but considering the tension swimming beneath the surface today like water under a slick of oil, it was encouraging that his remaining bridge crew were still laughing and joking. He watched Porthos' stump of a tail twitch, wanting to wag, and uncertain if he was permitted when his master frowned at him like that.  
  
Go ahead, Archer sighed, letting his shoulders slump. Wag your tail. Give me those big brown doggy eyes and look innocent.  
  
Porthos obliged. Archer stooped and patted him before returning to the captain's chair.  
  
Captain, I'm detecting a transmission, Ensign Kerr said, suddenly.  
  
Archer glanced over to the young woman hunched over the communications station, unable to prevent the obvious associations it brought—that at this time and in this shift, it should be Hoshi operating those controls. Where is it coming from?  
  
I can't tell you, sir. There don't appear to be any ships or beacons for at least three light-years, and none of those are emitting any kind of signal.  
  
Put it through.  
  
Kerr tapped at her station, and a flat field of static began to invade the bridge. It did not appear to come from the speakers as other transmissions did; it permeated every square centimeter of the bridge, a crackle in the skin, teasing goose flesh from Archer's arms. The hairs at the base of his neck stiffened, for no reason other than a vague suspicion he would not like what came next. He waited, anticipating a break in the static or an introduction of some kind. One by one, his bridge crew turned to look uncomfortably hard at him, expectant. But he did not intend to jump in blindly on this one.  
  
Then, without warning, a loud, monotonous voice began to speak.  
  
YOU HAVE SOMETHING THAT BELONGS TO US. WE DETECT 81 HUMANS ON YOUR SHIP MANIFEST. PREPARE FOR THOSE ONBOARD TO BE SCANNED.  
  
I'm Captain Archer, of the Starship _Enterprise_. Explain yourself.  
  
Nothing. The transmission did not come again, either as a reply or a repetition. Archer stood, braced for a warning shot—or maybe this mysterious scan spoken of, a process unnervingly vague and seemingly unstoppable. A viscous white-blue steam began to rise from the deck plates at his feet, rising from between like a volcanic spume, and as he glanced around the bridge he saw the same vapor rising in a dense, stinging fog that made his eyes water and his throat force a cough on reflex. There was the strong, even sickly, stench of a spilled chemistry set, thick with citric acid and dry ice.  
  
Behind him, Porthos hopped happily back into the captain's chair behind his master's back, yawned, and curled up to sleep, oblivious to the cloud that enveloped the bridge.  
  
-----------------------------  
  
For the second time in only an hour, Reed found himself slowly becoming aware of his surroundings in cautious degrees, though he remembered neither falling asleep nor being knocked unconscious. Sickly bluish light pierced his closed eyelids and a familiar silence swelled in his ears; but other than that, and the knowledge that he was lying on a hard floor again, there was nothing. His head rang faintly with a raucous cacophony of stunned echoes and his eyelids were imprinted with dizzying, brilliant stars. He must, then, have been neither _knocked_ out nor willingly _slept_, but passed out from that trembling, tenuous pain in his head.   
  
He dragged himself to a sitting position with both hands, detecting an odd sensation of loose fabric gathered at his hips, and glancing down saw that his uniform had been unfastened and peeled back to the waist, revealing a bloody smear in the left shoulder of his undershirt. It all came rushing back to him like a clap of thunder; the globe-shaped room, the dim corridor, the healing wound . . . and the number sequence that had opened a door beneath his feet.  
  
What . . . where am I? he murmured, having made no effort, in his waking state, to discover as much for himself. He hardly expected any answer. It was a further shock, neither pleasant nor yet worrying, when a voice he had heard once before in this very room said:  
  
You must remember this place.  
  
Reed banished the stars from his head, briskly shaking them away, and stumbled to his feet. As he looked about him he understood why the image of thunder had occurred to him; this was the conference room in which they had held their first meeting with Sparek and T'Lau, the conference room that had been lit, as it was now, with blue-gray twilight and the scurrying shadows of amassed storm clouds outside those tall, slim windows. But . . . but he had fallen _down_, hadn't he? Then why was he back where he began . . ?  
  
He smoothed all signs of surprise from his face, as he had cultivated the ability to do, and constructed as best he could, with his head so wooly and his heart so loud, a relaxed demeanor. He had come here to demand answers of these people, if people they could even be called, and he had no intention of allowing the opportunity to slide. Of course, he replied. What I actually meant to say was: is this your attempt to shut me up for good?  
  
From the far shadows pooling in the room's corners there came the dense pounds of footfalls. A figure, smallish in comparison with the Dark Man but taller than Reed himself, emerged from them into the watery moonlight. The patterns of shadow cast by the crossbars of the window panes created a lattice of black and blue across the floor, and across the sallow face of the stranger that approached.  
  
It was no stranger. It was Sparek, or the image of him, as he had appeared those few days ago. So much anger, Sparek observed softly, from beneath the monkish white hood that partially concealed his gaunt face. Now I remember why we had our reservations about you.  
  
Reed squared his aching shoulders, drew himself up to his best height, and snapped: You're not exactly my first choice either. But enough chitchat; I've come here because I want answers. What are these nanobots, and what have they done to T'Pol?  
  
You sound as if you already think you know. What did _he_ tell you?  
  
The question struck like a stone between the eyes, but he wrestled the surprise back, and feigned ignorance. He did not much care for the parallel between David and Goliath his first impression had presented him with—although, should he reverse those roles, the analogy was frighteningly apt.   
  
The one of us who visits you.  
  
No one visits' me.  
  
The hood dipped in a minimal, regal nod. The voice that answered was far from confrontational, but if anything that almost Vulcan character was . . . sad. You lie, human, and not very well. We know you see in the dark. You have cat's eyes, like us. The test we laid for you was in darkness and yet you saw your way. Only one of us could have given you that gift.   
  
Reed pressed his lips together, sealing in any reflex comment which may betray both his acquaintance with the Dark Man and his confusion over this sudden revelation. His eyes flickered from the Sparek-double's tranquil face for a fraction of a heartbeat, then steadied, fixing resolutely on the being before him. A thousand thoughts flashed through his mind, some instantly rejected, others held up to what he already had set in stone to see how they may fit, but he allowed none of that activity to mar his unrevealing face. If this being could be believed then the hopscotch test, that ridiculous and unreal number sequence, had been a test laid by these beings to uncover his mark, and not a path created by the Dark Man, after all. They had set it to bring him here where he couldn't run but also to test him, to prove that he had alien cells in his body capable of making him see in the dark. That ghostly light he had seen radiating from no visible source had not been light at all, but an ability bestowed on him, by accident or design, by the Dark Man's imprint. It was a fact he could hardly deny, having seen the evidence himself, though he reared instinctively against taking this creature's word on such blind faith.   
  
I . . . didn't know, he stammered, eventually.  
  
Which of us visits you? Sparek's form repeated. There was no more emotion in him than in the Vulcan he impersonated, though Vulcan he most definitely was not. Something in his total equanimity carried more assurance and ease than all the Dark Man's soothing promises had done.  
  
Reed sidestepped the question, wary of giving away anything more until he could uncover for himself just who this creature was . . . and how much he already knew. He didn't give me a name, he said, slowly. I always thought of him as the Dark Man.  
  
  
  
Because he always appeared at night. In the dark, no . . . no lights at all. I was only six at the time. All I can tell you is that he always appears with a tattoo on his hand. A black arrow.  
  
We know the one. He is . . . against us. Against what we are trying to do. But until now we had no proof. His methods of remaining undetected are regrettably advanced.  
  
I know what you're trying to do. You're trying to keep the Vulcans quiet. They found out a little too much about you and now you want to prevent it going any further. It emerged as an accusation he had not intended to make.  
  
The Sparek-creature did not falter in so much as one perfect eyebrow. We are not trying to silence the Vulcans, he stated, simply.  
  
Oh no? Then what about T'Pol? From what I hear, she's none too talkative right now. And the same thing happened to me when I tried to talk about the . . . the one who visits me. Are you telling me that was a coincidence?  
  
It is not a coincidence. Would we freely answer your questions now if our goal was to silence you all?  
  
Reed hesitated, thrown off-balance by the unnegotiable impenetrability of that logic. Maybe not. But if you didn't, then who did?  
  
The other one of us.  
  
He told me he _wanted_ first contact. But that statement fell heavily on the silence, losing any degree of the anger or fervor that his first assertions had carried. Even as he spoke, doubt was eating at his mind like a cancer—he made these statements as if they were concrete facts, proven by solid evidence . . . but in actual fact, when he thought back on the events that had led him here, he realized that every one of these statements stemmed only from the Dark Man's word. He had believed each explanation that came because any explanation, however farfetched, had been better than none. But how could he be sure . . ? He said you planted the nanobots to stop him, he continued, no longer stating what he felt he knew, but urging forward questions he never wanted to have to ask. I assume by affecting speech in some way if my own experience is anything to go by. Or perhaps causing illness, again like you've done to me this whole time. He said they mustn't reach Titrinus or they would spread throughout the Vulcan High Command.  
  
And then, clear in the echoing twilight of the high-arched conference room, came the two words he had most dreaded, and most expected, to hear. He lied.  
  
-----------------------------  
  
The steam dispersed as quickly as it had come. Archer choked, blinking back the sting in his eyes, and looked around at the streaming eyes and checked coughs of his bridge crew.   
  
Is everyone all right? he asked, once his voice had returned. He had no desire to speak so soon, but as always, his crew took precedence. They nodded, mostly unable to speak until their throats recovered. Travis muttered a weak: I think so, Captain.  
  
That voice invaded suddenly again, seeming not to pass through their ears at all, but to arrive directly in their heads, disembodied and echoless. An abyss.   
  
THE 78 HUMANS WE SCANNED ARE CLEAN. WE ALSO DETECT ONE DENOBULAN AND ONE VULCAN ON YOUR SHIP MANIFEST. PREPARE FOR THEM TO BE SCANNED.  
  
Archer knew better than to protest. A being without a body and a transmission without a transmitter was something even the best of Starfleet's training had never prepared him for. It was like attempting to communicate with, and possibly to fight against, a ghost.   
  
There was a pause, and the bridge was silent for two or three minutes. Then a chirp from the communicator in his armrest disturbed him. He punched the button and Phlox's voice came over the com, sounding strained for the buoyant Denobulan.   
  
Captain, the subcommander and myself appear to have been scanned by a vapor cloud of some description. I assume you have been experiencing similar . . . abnormalities.  
  
We're fine, Doctor. Are you and T'Pol okay?  
  
I think so, Captain. Phlox sounded surprised at the question.  
  
Sit tight. Archer out. He punched the com silent again and glanced around at his bridge crew, waiting for the voice to announce a further discovery, or issue a challenge. Nothing was forthcoming for a long, long moment. Then, tightly and with obvious disgust for its failed attempts at locating what it had came for, the voice said:  
  
WE WILL BE BACK. YOU MUST HAVE WHAT WE WANT.  
  
Archer let out the gush of breath he had held for the past two minutes, and scratched Porthos absently behind the ears. The bridge crew sat poised for a moment, afraid to return to their posts, afraid it was not over. Archer glanced down at the little dog gazing lovingly up at him from his chair, the plump little canine body defiantly planted where he had been told not to go.  
  
Archer smiled, tightly. Thank goodness the aliens had not thought to check the manifest for dogs.  
  
-----------------------------  
  
_He lied. _  
  
But the mirror, too? Had that lied? He had nothing left open to him but to present the situation as he had seen it, as he still saw it in some indestructible way, and hope that this being may either prove himself the liar . . . or prove the Dark Man as such. Reed suspended every belief for those few, precarious moments. _Give a dog enough rope_, he thought, wryly, and shuddered at the memory it brought of waiting to be convinced that first time. Hovering between life and death, fenced from the shadowlands by only the flimsy walls of his own memories and imagination. He remembered, with more than a passing thread of shame and a fiercely unbreakable pride, just how low the Dark Man had been forced to stoop to convince him. He had had to _kill _him and offer that promise of life before the natural Reed paranoia could be conquered. If Malcolm was ashamed at having believed so blindly, then at least he was proud of the effort it had taken to make him do so. He showed me quite a few things that I can't ignore. He showed me what would happen if I stayed on the ship, that you would attack for the sake of silencing the subcommander and me. I saw some . . . some alien _thing _demand these nanobots back from me—probably because I no longer showed any intention of taking them to Titrinus—and when you had what you wanted, you destroyed the _Enterprise. _So I came back here, hoping that with me gone you would leave the ship in peace and come after me. And ever since we set foot inside the entrance, this institute has done nothing but try to stop us from confronting you with the truth. If that wasn't your doing, then whose was it?  
  
I accept you have been intercepted at many points. But wasn't somebody also helping you to reach us?  
  
Are you saying that was you?  
  
There was a deathly pause, heavy on his lungs as it seemed to thicken the very air to a soup. Perhaps, in this unreal and fantastical place, it did. Sparek's emotionless clone began to pace restlessly in a half-circle beside Reed, reminding him, very briefly, of the captain. The captain. T'Pol, Trip . . . Hoshi. He wondered, almost painfully, if they were safe. If his leaving had averted the disaster after all. I am saying nothing. He is misleading you, Malcolm Reed, the being said, coldly. It is _he_ manipulating this institute against you, _he_ trying his utmost to prevent first contact. It was he you saw attacking your ship in the vision. Perhaps by showing you his intent he hoped to separate you from your native territory. There, you were to a degree protected by your friends. Like the woman who woke you in your engine room and guarded you in your quarters, at the risk of great danger to herself. But here, Malcolm—here you are fair game to him. This institute may have been ours in the beginning, but it is his playground now.   
  
Reed took this with the proverbial pinch of salt, half-convinced both the one way and the other. There was so much he didn't know, so much to be certain of before any decisions were made. On this one, there was no captain, no subcommander or commander to throw the responsibility onto; here, he was on his own. So often on the ship, he had continued with the job he knew he had to do regardless of rank and authority above him . . . but here, when he was most in need of another's objectivity, he had no choice but to work alone. If he could not do something, then no one would. He was the tactical officer; it was his place to gather all the information that was available to them, and form a plan of action based on that information. No unnecessary conclusions, no emotional outbursts. Just pure, cold logic. He wouldn't make the mistake of trusting too blindly again.   
  
We guided you to make your way here safely, with what power we have against him, the hooded form whispered. We are keeping your friends safe as we can even now.  
  
Friends? You mean Hoshi? he pursued, hopefully.  
  
And a man. A loud man.  
  
Ah. That would be Commander Tucker. So _Enterprise_ had followed, presumably unchallenged, and had sent the commander on a little recon to bring them back. They were all right, for now.   
  
For now.  
  
We are watching them, while we can. But _he_ is strong. We are limited in what we can do. We can hold him back for so long but now that you know the truth about him he will be coming for you and all who know you. In the end, it is your fight as much as it is ours.  
  
Reed shifted his weight from one foot to the other, folding his arms defensively across his chest. His uniform still hung half-stripped and unfastened at his waist. I don't know that it _is_ the truth, he bit. But he did. He might lie—badly—to these beings, but he could never lie to himself.  
  
And if we told you it was he who set Commander Tucker's phase pistol to kill? He used you in your sleep. Before your ensign woke you in engineering you had been to the armory. It was there that you altered the exact phase pistol your commander would later pick up. He knew which it would be. Don't you think it was a little convenient, his being given the opportunity to offer you your life and make so binding a bargain just when he needed to? Do you honestly believe it was an accident? You know your own duties, Lieutenant. You would never have left a lethal weapon set to kill, even sealed away in your armory. Somebody tampered with it, somebody set to benefit from your death.  
  
_(We are not constrained to the restrictions of length, height, breadth, and time)_  
  
He saw. The words came reluctantly, dragging themselves from his mouth. All this information he had received . . . had been given . . . and he hadn't been paying attention. Can he see the ship? Everything we do?  
  
In theory we each have the ability to see any place or time we wish. But we cannot be everywhere at once. If he is occupied in tracking you and your friends here it is unlikely he will have been watching your ship, as you hoped when you came here. Although we cannot guarantee he is working alone.  
  
How do you know all this? Reed snapped, suddenly. Explain that.  
  
We are shades in this plane of existence, Lieutenant. We see everywhere and every _when_. We see him when his defenses are weak, as he no doubt sees us. Think about it, Malcolm. What have we held back from you? He has done nothing but keep you in the dark. He makes you ill to keep you from reaching us.  
  
_Yes_, Reed thought sarcastically to himself. _It's like getting blood out of a stone. You, on the other hand . . . well, you're just a veritable little fountain of knowledge, aren't you?_ He also fixed my shoulder, he contended, but weakly. As if in confirmation of all this other told him, he was beginning to feel dizzy in the head once more. He set his teeth hard, and focused on damming back the pain. The Dark Man _had_ fixed his shoulder . . . but if this creature with him now was so close to convincing him, and knew it, would he make him ill, just when the argument was won?  
  
He was not responsible for healing your wound. He no doubt _knew_ it would heal . . . but he had no part in it. He may even have caused it to open again.  
  
Reed gulped, accepting it without protest now. Clearly this being told the truth. The nanobots had repaired his shoulder, and the Dark Man had foreseen it all those years ago, had used it as a prophecy by which he may plant these false ideas in his intended host's head. It was the Dark Man, it must be, who made the room swim and his head pound like waves on the shore now. The Dark Man that had all along turned this institute against them to keep him from learning the truth. The Dark Man that had caused his death.  
  
The room flickered as a ribbon of white-hot lightning streaked down beyond the far windows, the blackout of walls and floor and the figure of Sparek himself synchronized perfectly with that shocking bolt. Clearly in the ozone-laden air steamed the acid-oxide scent of the Dark Man's alien cells, cooking in his blood.  
  
He is winning, the robed figure said, for the first time betraying an urgency with his voice that was far from evident in his passive face. Quickly. I can extract the nanobots now and arrange for their transport another way. I cannot allow him to take them from you and destroy them; they took much of our resources to perfect. Once they are gone, he should have no business with you. Perhaps when this is settled, we can attempt first contact with _your_ race.  
  
Reed smiled, indulgently, just the faintest tug of his lips to one side. I think you just did.  
  
Then Earth should thank you. You have made a . . . good impression.  
  
Even though I didn't deliver your nanobots for you?  
  
We never expected any of our enemies would intercept you. We are sorry we ever put you and your ship in such a position. We thought that his kind would never suspect such an unknown race as our couriers. We should have known better.  
  
The smile, rare for him, deepened. For some inexplicable and perhaps foolish reason, Reed felt honored at having been trusted with the privilege to begin with. It was an acceptable risk. And you didn't think he would see what you were up to. I assume you have some form of hiding your activities from one other? A society that values secrets yet can see everything that ever was or will be strikes me as a bit of an amusing concept, if you don't mind my saying so.  
  
We have our ways. You have seen that they are not infallible. And there, in answer to his own, was a quiet and most un-Vulcan smile. It seemed strange on Sparek's graven face. But we would like to believe we see with more discernment than he ever will.  
  
Well, if you don't mind . . . I'd like these little pests removed now. If it's at all possible.  
  
Of course. The being—he had no other way to refer to him, and felt ill at ease applying the name of the Vulcan whose form he had chosen to manifest himself in—stepped forward, only a hand's breadth from Reed, and gently placed his arched fingers on Reed's forehead. There was that same, stinging sensation, blessedly brief . . . and then, nothing. The creature withdrew his cold hand. They are gone.  
  
That was quick.  
  
Wasn't it? Not his voice, not Sparek's . . . it rang from behind them, a boom amplified in the distant ceiling of the conference room as a music hall would swell the voices of a choir.  
  
The Dark Man.  
  
Reed spun on his heel, braced to spring aside if the need came. The entire building flickered, allowing a glimpse of a dark and void planet beyond—the real, dead planet on which this fake meeting place had been imposed. Even the storm, in those glimpses, ceased to exist.  
  
Of course. Holographic weather. Designed to hide the comings and goings of these beings from people who had no business to see. To unnerve his hosts as he saw fit . . .   
  
. . . and once to conceal a visit, in a place where aliens never trod, to a little boy's bedroom in the dead of night.


	29. FROM LIGHT INTO SHADOW, PART ONE

FROM LIGHT INTO SHADOW, PART ONE  


  
You shouldn't listen to them, Malcolm.   
  
Reed teased any sign of alarm out of his face, and spun to the doorway at the far end—a doorway where an elongated shadow, spidery as a daddy longlegs, rippled in the gauze. As he looked about him, he realized the Sparek-figure had vanished, presumably removing the precious nanobots from any immediate danger of discovery and damage. Funny. That's exactly what they say about _you_.  
  
The Dark Man advanced a step, never leaving the anonymity of the shadows for that patch of latticed moonlight, but bringing himself close enough for Reed to see the coat whispering in the wind, and how much taller this figure seemed now that he saw him again in the flesh'. You gave them back their property, the cold voice stated, intractably. It left little room for denial.  
  
Yes. They seemed to think they could find a safer way. A way _you_ couldn't sabotage. In fact, I'm surprised I got so far as to give them back. There was a time when it seemed you could control me, completely. Reed halted finally, snatching his breath back in his throat. The words rushed out, falling the one over the other without his permission, and it was all he could do to stop short of making the final accusation breathlessly, hastily, wasting its impact in a slew of verbal attacks of lesser importance. He looked up under his eyebrows at the Dark Man, and said, very softly: Like the time I signed my own death warrant by altering the phase pistol Commander Tucker would later pick up.  
  
The Dark Man did not flinch. Reed needed no other confirmation of his suspicions. I did control you, the alien replied calmly. I still could.  
  
Then why don't you? Why make me ill, instead of moving my feet the way _you_ want me to walk? Why do you need my co-operation, why did you ever need it?  
  
You're walking a fine line, Malcolm. Don't make me angry.  
  
It's something about me, isn't it? Something you couldn't foresee because it's not common to other humans. Perhaps because it's something that would never have happened to me if not for your interference in my life.  
  
The Dark Man's head dipped near imperceptibly in a nod, half-shrouded in a black fabric like nothing Reed had ever seen before. You're trying to trick me into giving away something. It won't work. I've never given information for the asking; what makes you think you're anything special?   
  
You did something, he said, slowly, as it came. Time was I was the same as any other being you'd taken over. Maybe I fought you a little more than you're used to and you didn't like it . . . but I _was_ nothing special, then. Nothing you couldn't handle. As the thought formed in his mind, solidified, his words became slower, his tongue testing each as it found its way forward. He laughed, humorlessly, for his own benefit and not for the Dark Man's ears. Would you have been too strong for me, in the end? I'd have said yes, back then. But because of _you_, because of what you did in sickbay . . . something happened to my body that didn't agree with you. You tried . . . but you found you couldn't control me any more. You had to trick me and make me sick instead. As he spoke, Reed was beginning to feel sicker and sicker, the swamping dizziness that had unbalanced him in the corridor returning with full force. It seemed to confirm his suspicions, as if the Dark Man no longer saw any merit in hiding the truth. I doubt you've ever resurrected one of your hosts' before, have you?  
  
The alien took one strong step closer, almost bringing his form to bear in the faded neon zebra stripes of bluish light. But you're forgetting one thing, the Dark Man said, calmly. I don't need you any more. We had a deal. And you broke it when you returned their nanobots to them alive.  
  
I don't remember any deal'. As I remember it I turned down your kind offer, Reed snapped.  
  
Initially. But you have your life, life that I gave you. Therefore we had a deal. Nothing is free.  
  
You killed me to begin with!  
  
That changes nothing. You didn't keep your end of the bargain; therefore I don't have to keep mine.  
  
There came a shiver through Reed's body like an electrical charge, spreading from his chest and outward, and instinctively he collapsed under the blow. He sank to his knees, hands clutching protectively at his head. At a second strike, he pitched forward on his face, his jaw connecting sharply enough to make his teeth rattle in his head. Everything was going black . . . and faintly, very faintly but growing stronger every moment, he could see the shadowlands, lurking beyond.  
  
-----------------------------  
  
An arm reached down to Hoshi and fastened, with a reassuring iron-like strength in the hardened muscles, around her ribs beneath her arms. Her sweat-slicked body almost slipped from his grasp, but she reached up with her free hand, wrapping the angle of her elbow around his neck, and threw her weight forward into him as he hauled her up into the ventilation system.   
  
Heard ya countin' down there, Trip teased, gently. Better thank your lucky stars you never made it to nine, or you might've had to kiss me.  
  
Hoshi did not immediately grace the comment with an answer, but turned a watery smile away from him, and sighed. It's just a rhyme, she said, dryly. Then, as an afterthought: You stink of sweat.  
  
You ain't so pretty yourself, Ensign, he replied. But there was no slight to it, and both officers laughed quietly, drunk with relief. Hoshi wrestled herself upright, and sat across from Trip with her back to the curving wall, the adrenaline still high in her blood. Trip, too, looked flushed, and his pupils had dilated hugely, black engulfing their pretty blue. Her one glance, shining the beam of her flashlight over him, revealed rips in his uniform and his hair in willful disarray. There was a red spot high on his cheekbone that would soon mottle and bruise.   
  
You look awful, she said.  
  
And what have you been doin', jugglin' flamethrowers? he returned indignantly. Is it any wonder I look awful, what's wrong with this place?  
  
That's just it. It . . . it's not really a place. It's holographic, all of it's holographic, and these . . . She floundered, grappling desperately for a word that eluded her even as she grasped at it.   
  
Trip suggested.   
  
Impostors, right. They control the hologram. They separated me from Malcolm and kept me wandering so I wouldn't be in their way.  
  
So where _is_ Malcolm?  
  
Hoshi bit her lip and sank back into the wall as far as she could go, wishing it would take her inside itself as those walls above had taken Lieutenant Reed. Anything that would remove her from Trip's cool, aqua-blue stare, and the bewildered revelation taking place in them. She wanted to ask him what he was doing here . . . but he was waiting for her answer, and as a subordinate officer, she had to be the first to give it.  
  
I . . . I mean, he . . . she attempted, her throat catching on the confession before it could be born. Her eyes welled with exhausted tears once again, and she sniffed them back, angrily. She was tired of being the child of the crew. While she walked, she had wanted nothing more than to be found and rescued . . . but now that her wish had come true she did not want to admit, under a superior's stare, that she had lost her charge. The captain had trusted her to watch the lieutenant and see he didn't try anything stupid, and what had she done? Helped him steal a shuttlepod. Helped him break his parole. She couldn't help but feel that she had not been big enough for the situation, that any of her friends would have done better. That, once again, space had proven to be too big for her.   
  
Hoshi took a deep breath, and straightened her spine as rigidly as the low space would allow her. I'm sorry, sir, she said, crisply. He was my responsibility and I understand that I'm in line for a reprimand . . .  
  
Trip ducked his head forward a little, catching her eyes with his, and offered his softest, slightest smile. Well, responsibility isn't exactly my favorite word sometimes, Hoshi, he said, and the smile twisted in on itself, a bitter twinge of self-cannibalism. His dilated eyes swallowed the milky beam of light like black holes, concealing something he was not saying, but which rested just behind. She had rarely seen Trip look so shaken.   
  
She returned the smile, and saw his spring back, softening again. He may be her superior officer, but that smile melted her every time. With the captain it was his implacable calm, with Reed, his voice . . . each of them made her feel safe, like they waited with open arms to catch her when she fell.  
  
Hoshi glanced back at the mouth of the ventilation shaft, and chuckled, stifling the sound behind her hand. Sometimes, she reflected, the analogy could be quite literal.  
  
I saw another shaft leading off a little way back, Trip said, casually brushing his shredded uniform down. How's about gettin' outta here fore these things change their minds? You can fill me in on the finer details later.  
  
Hoshi nodded, gratefully. Lead on, Commander, she said.   
  
-----------------------------  
  
The room stuttered like a broken light bulb, shocks of arid desert rock breaking through the projection of a building that never existed. Each shutter-frame sent a fresh pulse of energy through Reed's system, one which barely ebbed before the next arrived, and he clamped down on the yell that wanted to come, his instinct overriding the fading notion he had that remaining silent was a mistake.   
  
Is this that stiff upper lip I've heard so much about, Malcolm? the Dark Man taunted, his slow, circular pacing driving each deliberate step home hard. The one that _brave_ little six-year-old showed me? You're weak, Lieutenant, so weak you believed everything I told you. What happened to that little boy I remember? He had spirit. He knew power when he saw it, when he felt it. That's why he was afraid of the storm. You forgot to be as you grew, and you forgot me, forgot there's some things that you can't fight. You don't have it in you to be as powerful as I am, to do half the things I do.  
  
Reed heard the words through a filter of heat, but only the vaguest impression registered. He was blacking out. Somewhere far, far back where the blackness could not quite reach, those lightning bolts of airless desert continued to imprint themselves on his eyelids, and in one of those flashes, he thought he made out two figures, running, stumbling, looking back.  
  
he murmured, feeling the name strike through the raging scream behind his eyes.   
  
You see them, then. As I thought.  
  
A fresh blast seemed to numb his every last shred of resistance, and he clutched his head in his hands, clamped his eyes shut, desperately holding off the threatening unconsciousness. The phase pistol energy that had been held captive in the Dark Man's living cells, absorbed and rendered harmless by them, now flashed back into his blood and bone with the force of ten hurricanes. That last taunt echoed, sending shockwaves through his battered nervous system—at first a glimmer, but slowly beginning to grow.  
  
-----------------------------  
  
Trip hauled Hoshi to her feet as she stumbled, half-helping, half-dragging her across the plaza. The storm that had awakened as they wound their way through the guts of the institute set the sky aquiver with neon and black, and a howling wind drove rain into them like nails from a nail gun. Even shouting they could barely make themselves heard; the wind tore their voices from their throats and shredded them in its own banshee wail.   
  
Hoshi hung back stubbornly, wrenching at his hold, and if there were now any tears to see, then the rain had washed them all away. We can't just go, Malcolm's still in there! she accused, attempting one last time to tear herself from his hand. Let me go, Commander!  
  
Trip lunged forward through the curtain of rain, hooked her wrist in his free hand, and brought her to a shuddering halt pulled up hard against him. Her lurching breaths cut through him as T'Pol's had done, one snapshot in time pasted to another. Her wide eyes burned as darkly. Hoshi. Hoshi! We don't even know that he's still in there. I couldn't find his biosign, he said, softly now despite the downpour, not wanting to give her this news now, and in this way. There were just two humans, you and me.  
  
And you think we can trust everything we see when it's _not real_? Her black hair streamed like lank ribbons down her face and whipped about her cheeks in the gale. She was not going to be moved on this by force, that he could see.  
  
I know. But Hoshi, we'll be more use to him if we go for help. That's what I shoulda done in the first place. That's why we're in this mess!  
  
And if you _had_? I'd be dead, Trip. There would have been no one to catch me and I'd be dead. What if our help's too late?  
  
Trip lowered his gaze, unable to look into those pleading, angry eyes, and still do what he was about to do now. What he _had_ to do. He swallowed hard, taking a mouthful of sweet rain with it. I'm sorry, Ensign, I really am. But I'm orderin' you to get on that shuttlepod. I'm gonna count to three.  
  
Hoshi remained rooted, feet planted squarely apart, and did not budge.  
  
Trip counted firmly, raising his voice above the battering rain. There was a flash, a subliminal fraction of time, where for a moment Trip thought he saw rocky wastes imprinted on the silvered darkness; then it was gone, and he shook the momentary illusion aside. He must have been imagining things.   
  
Hoshi blinked, water streaking her cheeks like tears.  
  
he faltered. He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to be the bad guy. The _command_ guy.  
  
_Lead on, Commander._  
  
The echo struck, arbitrary and uninvited, and stuck fast in his craw like sawdust. Malcolm'd be the first to accept casualties for the sake of the mission, Hoshi, he said, weak with the knowledge that he lied. He'd know straight away when to cut and run.  
  
_(I don't want to use it, but I will)_  
  
Trip shuddered, and it had nothing to do with the cold seeping into his bones. Lightning sliced the cloud mass above, and the raindrops sizzled into a tangy lemon steam as they struck his skin. Reed had saved his life the day that line had first been spoken, on Shuttlepod One. Trip had been on the brink of becoming such a casualty, voluntarily offering his life for the success of the mission, and the insubordinate lieutenant had refused to accept a loss. Reed would rather risk neither surviving than live on the back of a friend's death.   
  
Hoshi whispered, her unsteady lips wet with rain.   
  
Trip looked down into her sad face, completely free from accusation now, and gulped. Go to the shuttlepod, Ensign, he repeated, without conviction. Not for the first time, he envied Hoshi her position, free from these decisions, these worries. Free from command. he yelled.  
  
Hoshi shivered, and blinked owlishly. We can't leave, she said.  
  
Trip sighed. _We_ can't. But you can. I'm going back.  
  
Then the sky screamed blue, and the fractured glimpses of dry sandstone plains flickered.  
  
The plaza vanished. So did the rain, the clouds.  
  
So did the air.  
  
-----------------------------  
  
He could see them. While his physical eyes had dimmed with the onslaught of phase energy racking his body, his vision shrinking to a telescopic pinpoint, the place away from the grayness saw them vividly, heard them clearly. He saw the rain splash in the rising puddles at their feet, and Trip's insistent manhandling to usher a belligerent Hoshi aboard. He heard her say she wouldn't leave. He heard Trip, deciding to come back. He heard it all, and accepted it onboard with stunned incomprehension that their delay could be for _him_.  
  
I told you it was a secret, Malcolm, the Dark Man said. You should never have gotten your friends involved. I told you. Pleasant, so pleasant. Like he was Reed's best friend and confidante.  
  
Let . . . them go, he gasped, needles shooting through him as he tried to stir. They don't know anything.  
  
_But I do_, Reed thought. _I know, and that's enough_. The glimmer that had caught in his mind's net moments ago drifted closer to the surface, almost revealing itself, almost becoming . . . what? A revelation he needed, but which continued to elude him. The more the swollen blackness in his head increased, the more his thinking ability diminished, and it drifted further away from him, a message in a bottle carried by the current.   
  
They know something happened to you. Is _going_ to happen to you, the Dark Man said. He stepped over Reed, and continued his concentric pacing. The woman knows much more. Because you told her.  
  
_Hoshi._ It jolted him awake, a spark catching light to reluctant kindling. An image of her came to him, standing in the rain beyond these walls, her hair loose and wetted like crepe over her face, her eyes a vehement lampblack in ashy lids. He saw Trip, as soaked and shivering with cold as Hoshi, yelling, coaxing, pulling rank on her.   
  
_I can tell you that won't work, Commander_, he thought, with his last fading breath of consciousness. And then it hit him.  
  
He could see them. The walls remained impenetrably solid around him and yet he saw it—not as a physical hallucination like the vision in the mirror, but internally, like a daydream.   
  
Was he dreaming?  
  
He could see them. As the Dark Man, all those years ago, had seen _him _across time and space. I think your plan didn't go as you'd like, sir, he forced, covering his eyes with his hands to keep out the wretched flashing light, clinging to that image of his friends . . . holding it up like a mantra against unconsciousness. In it they were gasping, staggering on to the shuttle, Hoshi bent almost double.  
  
It is close enough.  
  
Stop it! Reed found the strength to yell. Stop it, you'll kill them!  
  
Not if they go quickly, I won't. But then . . . they don't seem to be taking me very seriously, do they?  
  
In that dream-image he held to, their air resequenced from thin . . . to none.  
  
-----------------------------  
  
Trip felt the final drop in oxygen levels, and the sudden density of what remained hitting him in the lungs with a sucker punch. Hoshi's knees buckled and she dropped like a stone beside him, grazing her knees in the damp gravel between the flagstones. He hooked his fingers under her arms, weak with the burn in his lungs, and dragged her up and onward, their feet skidding. The two shuttlepods were maybe twenty meters ahead, side-by-side in welcoming attention.  
  
Twenty meters, give or take.   
  
He gulped back the last of his stored oxygen, feeling it slip in his throat like warm caramel, and looked firmly ahead as they tried to run.   
  
But he could see, already, that they would never make it in time.  
  
-----------------------------  
  
Reed shuddered as one last electrical charge coursed through him from temple to toes, then diffused in a vapor of lemonade fumes. That scent grew stronger with every moment, an invisible rising mist. It always accelerated at the highest moments of cell activity between his own biology and the Dark Man's, but never like this.  
  
Never like this.  
  
His narrow field of vision shrank to a dot, darkened by impending blackness . . . but still, stamped on his retinas like a color slide, he could see Hoshi and Trip, suffocating only meters from the shuttlepod. He had to _do _something, he had to do his job and protect his crew . . . protect his friends. In the end, it was _his _fight—not in part, not as much as he could, but entirely. They were his responsibility.   
  
He was sick of responsibility.  
  
Reed hooked his elbows under him, pushing himself up from the ground. He was dimly aware of the Dark Man's booted feet, stalking past him in a narrowing arc. He could feel himself dragged back down, and fought against it.   
  
_(we guided you to make your way here)_  
  
They had guided him . . . but never, in his memory, had they said they had _gotten_ him here. Which meant . . . which meant _he _had freed _himself _from that room. Whatever the Dark Man's gift' had done to reject the creature's hold over him, it had also done something _to_ him. He had ceased to be a puppet, steered by remote control to whatever ends the alien devised. He understood things he should never have known, deducing conclusions that should never have been within his reach, as if the answers had been coming from somewhere else. And now, he saw as the Dark Man saw . . . across space, and maybe, should he take the time to try, across time as well.   
  
_(You don't have it in you to be as powerful as I am, to do half the things I do)_  
  
Yes, he did. He had had those abilities in him all along, branded into his blood with the Dark Man's mark. He just hadn't known it.   
  
As suddenly as it came the pain subsided, and Reed levered himself up on one knee, forcing air through his hurting lungs in startled hiccups. The Dark Man's attempts to even the score had failed. Reed had fought for his lucidity, fought using some new force he did not understand, and won.  
  
_(you can't control me any more)_  
  
The two dim figures of Trip and Hoshi stumbled on for a shuttlepod mere meters beyond their reach.  
  
-----------------------------  
  
Hoshi was deadweight against him, and his own head swam with air deprivation, but Trip braced her unresponsive weight in his arm and set his darkening sights ahead, judging the distance—forgetting, for the moment, that the math didn't add up.  
  
The returning air slammed him onto his knees, tipping his feet from under him, and he dropped Hoshi to the ground. The plaza fluttered back into existence, flagstones under his knees and air rushing into his lungs, and Trip swallowed heady gulps of it, fists thumping the circulation back into his chest.  
  
He glanced across at Hoshi, lying where she had fallen.   
  
She was not breathing.


	30. FROM LIGHT INTO SHADOW, PART TWO

FROM LIGHT INTO SHADOW, PART TWO  


  
Trip fell to his knees at Hoshi's side, eyes raking over the clinging folds of her uniform for even the palest spark of life beneath; but she was motionless, her eyes closed and her body twisted where she had fallen in a Picassian tangle, unconscious before she hit the ground.   
  
he breathed, eyes slitted against the needles of rain striking his face. He blew the pool collecting behind his teeth out of his mouth and smudged his hand across his eyes, vainly trying to clear them. As he bent over her, water dripped from his brow and chin, pattering into the sodden cotton of her uniform in a drilling beat that punctuated each breath he took.  
  
Each breath she did not take. She did not even stir.  
  
he pleaded, knowing his only answer would be the wind in the trees. He stooped his ear to her chest, awaiting the gentle rise and fall of her lungs, listening for the whisper of air being pulled into her body. The storm beat into his back relentlessly, striking a percussion that drowned out all other sound.  
  
Trip laced his hands together and crossed them over her ribs, palms flat, and began to apply pressure to her heart in abrupt, firm jolts. He felt her shudder under his hands, but it was only the reflex from his own force, and no motion of her own, that produced it. He pinched her nose between his knuckles, took a deep breath, and carefully sealed his lips over hers, reflecting humorlessly that his teasing about a kiss had turned out to be horribly, sickeningly prophetic. Her chest swelled as he breathed into her, expelling his own air into her mouth slowly. Her lungs deflated as he sat back, but they did not fill again on their own.  
  
C'mon, Hoshi, breathe why don't ya? he mumbled, unaware he even spoke. Breathe, Ensign, that's an order! It rang away into the mist, and was swallowed in the gathering darkness behind. Day was giving way to night and the world descended from light to shadow, bringing a gray gauze over the plaza's flooding enclosure.   
  
Hoshi lie there in a rising swell of turbulent black water, as lifeless as Reed had been in that sickbay only a few long hours ago.  
  
-------------------------  
  
Reed faced his nameless nemesis—or was it accidental benefactor?—across an expanse of molten moonlight and darkness, the boiling sky faltering with each roar of thunder and each dagger of lightning, switching light to shadow and shadow to light. The Dark Man stared back at him, a haze of clotted night with two distant points of red glinting from the depths of his hooded face. Reed had never seen that face. He knew he never would. But he could, if he chose.  
  
If he chose. The black shape gaped like the doorway to another dimension, waiting to devour him. A dimension he had seen into, still saw into, and where he did not wish ever to go.  
  
_(You don't have it in you to be as powerful as I am)_  
  
A taunt made in all innocence, perhaps, but it had been the trigger to some imperturbable notion deep in Reed's subconscious mind—the place where every echo of every recalcitrant memory was locked away, rattling in their cage until the time when they could be made sense of again.  
  
_(Do you think he'd be too strong for you, if he were under pressure?)_  
  
Once, he had replied in the affirmative, knowing the force of will levering his own was of a league he could never hope to counter. He had told Hoshi to shoot because he knew he could not win. But things had changed; he couldn't be controlled any more because he _could_ win.  
  
You knew I would see them, Reed said. The anger that had simmered on a low heat for so long suddenly volcanoed, and evaporated in a flash. You knew I would realize that I was changing, and do something if you threatened them. How could you know that? It wasn't a part of my natural timeline, it happened because _you_ interfered. How did you see?  
  
The Dark Man chuckled, in a manner so human that it made Reed falter with sudden disquiet.   
  
It's elementary, Mr. Reed, the shade replied, the last of his dying laugh carried on a breath. The moment I realized I could no longer control you I assumed logically that it was due not to me but to _you_. That your human willpower and control had elevated to a level comparable to mine. In fact, it _is_ mine.  
  
You mean I'm . . . Reed shied away from the statement, not wanting to play all his hidden cards in one hand. Let this creature assume what he would; but Reed did not intend to voice the extent of that newfound will and surrender his greatest advantage.  
  
You are becoming like me. The cells I injected into you regenerated yours in that sickbay, and in the process they have somehow spliced themselves to your own—a consequence I should have seen, and would have, had you been like any other human. But you had to be different, you had to make me kill you before you would listen to reason. It was spat with utter disdain, but against all of Reed's expectations, the Dark Man appeared neither concerned nor surprised. I couldn't let you go your way without knowing the extent of your transformation—how much of a threat you are to me—now could I?  
  
And T'Pol? She's not going to . . .  
  
No. She's a Vulcan, and she was not essentially killed by her friend and colleague. The shadows shifted, the mouthless smirk Reed had witnessed in the mirror materializing once more. It appears she is more careful in choosing her friends.  
  
Reed's fists twitched convulsively but he kept them rooted at his sides, telling himself there was nothing to punch—only holographic matter that would disperse and reform at the blink of an eye.  
  
I wished it, he declared abruptly, thinking aloud. He had controlled the hologram, altered it as he saw fit. I saw Hoshi and the commander were in trouble, and I wished I could help them. And it happened, they got their air back just like I wanted them to. Is that how it works? Do you just wish' things to be, and they appear?  
  
Advanced psychokinetic and telekinetic ability. The Dark Man pondered a moment, giving no impression of defense or impending attack—he seemed content, for now, merely to exchange words across this gulf to an enemy he could not reach save in rootless insults. Yes. When it involves our holograms we think what we need to be, and it is. In more physical cases we often choose a host such as yourself to act as an intermediary.  
  
Isn't that a little unfair? Do you mean you can just pop in and out when you feel like it, changing this and that, or infecting people the way you infected me?   
  
Usually . . . yes.  
  
But you can't just interfere with people's lives! It would be a fundamental infringement on their right to free will. Don't you people have any respect for the rest of the universe?  
  
_They_ have laws. Rules. They stifle what they are. They deny themselves, make themselves like corporeal beings, wish to make _contact _with them.  
  
Like the nanobots.  
  
The Dark Man nodded.   
  
And the vision I saw? The ship being destroyed? It was never _them_, was it? It was you, all along. I saw what you planned to do if I didn't co-operate with you. Aren't you worried about retrieving T'Pol's nanobots, too?  
  
She does not have them any more.   
  
Reed could not be sure, but thinly disguised in that statement was a curl of the lip that could be heard, a disgust that could be felt, and he relished it, secretly. So what happens now? he asked, unable to prevent himself from appearing at least a little bit smug. It appears we've reached a rather impressive stalemate. You can't destroy me. I can't destroy you. It's checkmate, and you know it.  
  
Around them, the neon and shadow continued to spin, blue and dead, cutting swathes across the conference room like a strobe light—or like the blades of a fan, chopping their way through the gloom.  
  
You're bluffing, Malcolm Reed. A blink of the Dark Man was there, lit with lines of blue fire like the spider's web threads of the numbered floor; and then it was gone, black, and then lit again. A catherine wheel, revolving at speeds that accelerated as his own heart rate accelerated.  
  
Reed had always been rather partial to fireworks.  
  
Am I bluffing? He allowed a smile of his own, entirely humorless. Perhaps his poker face didn't need work, after all. Maybe I just know power when I see it. When I _feel_ it. A merciless echo of his own design, mirroring the past as the past had so often mirrored the present. I have it in me to be as powerful as I need to be . . . to get rid of _you_.  
  
-------------------------  
  
The damp material of her uniform had settled like shrink wrap around a squarish object in her breast pocket, and Trip's fingers brushed unmindfully against it as he pulled back a second time, his efforts disappointed. His throat burned like a firebrand, and thoughtlessly he opened his mouth and accepted the drizzle of holographic rain on his tongue, swallowing it back as he tore the zip open and fumbled the item from her pocket. Her communicator.  
  
_Three minutes. You've got maybe three minutes before she's brain dead. And I reckon you already had one._  
  
His fingers slipped as he attempted to pry it open, the slick surface repelling him. He set his teeth hard and tried again, bruising the tips of his fingers as they scraped down its side; then he regained his grip, and flipped the communicator open.   
  
_One minute and twenty seconds. You hear that, Commander? You'd better.   
_   
Static sung brokenly in his hand, bursting intermittently between more definite strains of sound. A voice.   
  
Trip yelled desperately into the communicator. Cap'n, it's Trip, can ya hear me up there? Cap'n, do you read?  
  
There was a snapple, followed by the fractured syllables of Captain Archer's voice. Even butchered by the weak channel, his tone sounded urgent as Trip's.  
  
One minute forty seconds.  
  
Trip . . . are you? . . . breaking up . . . did you find . . .  
  
Trip interrupted whatever else the captain may have had to say. Cap'n, Hoshi's not breathing. Get Phlox to the transporter room and beam us up!  
  
The wailing wind blasted across the communicator's sudden silence. Then, faintly. . . . on it.   
  
Trip slumped in relief, letting his forehead rest against her still ribs, her uniform sticking to his damp brow.  
  
Two minutes.  
  
He devoured three shuddering breaths, held them, and released them, his body partially shielding hers from the downpour. The manufactured water molecules forming a mist around him and sleeting down his back in a torrent tingled with an unseen energy charge, seeping into his skin, through his muscles, penetrating bone. The transporter had a lock on them, and each atom in his body hummed as he was disassembled, the beam gradually taking hold.  
  
Perhaps his command capabilities were not so bad, after all.  
  
The tingle dissipated as abruptly as it had built, the faint shimmer dying, and was gone in an instant.  
  
Two minutes twenty. They had failed.  
  
he said, clutching the communicator in his fist as if it may escape and run away from him. He dragged himself upright, his chest tightening instinctively once more. Cap'n, what happened?  
  
Can't . . . transporter lock . . . interference . . . .your position . . . breaking up . . . Trip did not wait to answer. Two minutes forty seconds. He could do this.   
  
He flung the communicator aside into the viscous black pool forming between the stones, and locked both hands over Hoshi's heart for the third time. He leant his whole weight into each pump on her ribs, throwing strength from the pit of his stomach and down through his rigid arms. One—two—three—four—five.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Trip scrambled back, kicking up spray with his heels, and fused his mouth over hers. Her lips were cold and wet under his, the breathless immobility of them sending a shiver darting deep into his spine; but he pushed past that instinctive repulsion, and breathed his own air into her. Her lungs rose and fell, but did not rise again unaided.  
  
Three minutes. Surely, by now, he had had his three minutes. They had been and gone, and because of him, because of his failure to make a command decision and either drag her to the shuttlepods or allow her to go back, she was gone with them.  
  
Trip fell back in the quagmire, not feeling the wet or the cold or his own weariness, perhaps not _able_ to feel any more. Everything he had done, every decision he had made since this nightmare began, had been wrong. He had failed to check the phase pistol setting, and Malcolm had almost died. Had it not been for the captain's intervention in the sweet spot, T'Pol would have gotten the better of him, because he had fallen for her play. And had he agreed to bring Travis down here with him, then he could have sent the ensign back for help while he continued to search for the two missing officers.   
  
_(I'd be dead, Trip. There would have been no one to catch me and I'd be dead)  
_   
Trip reached across and took her small, clay-like hand in his. It was icy, limp, and fragile as an eggshell. But that didn't help ya much, did it, sweetheart? he murmured, bitterly.   
  
Beside him, Hoshi spluttered.  
  
-------------------------  
  
The laugh Reed received in return sailed high into the cross-lit bubble of the arched skylight. Those blue-black glimpses continued to kaleidoscope crazily.  
  
So you're fond of fireworks, the Dark Man breathed. No surprise, from you. Would you like me to create a new firework, Lieutenant? Bigger and louder and brighter than all the rest? I think I'll name it _Enterprise_.  
  
You wouldn't dare, Reed said quietly. Dangerously.  
  
Then stop me.  
  
_(He will be coming for you and all who know you. Forever)_  
  
Reed thought quickly. He wouldn't stand a chance in a direct conflict; although strong, a virulent strain coursing through his gestalted blood, his abilities were new and unperfected, largely unknown. He couldn't protect the ship from any direct assault, he would just as likely destroy as defend it. For all he knew, it may have been his mishandling that saw the _Enterprise_ blown out of the sky in his vision. But his strength, his ability, his own, _human_ power, had never rested with brute force.   
  
It had rested with tactical skill.  
  
I will, he said, with impenetrable certainty. You see, you may be able to destroy the ship before I could figure out how to stop you. You may even be able to kill Hoshi and Commander Tucker. But we've already established you can't kill me. I can defend myself enough for that. And the _instant _you make a move against my ship and my crew, I will personally see to it that everyone at Starfleet Headquarters, everyone at the Vulcan High Command, in fact every friendly civilisation we've ever made contact with, knows about you. Your secret will be out. Having people know you exist will spoil your fun somewhat, wouldn't you agree?  
  
There was an obstinate silence. But Reed already felt, in his heart, that what he had set out to do when he stole Shuttlepod One had finally reached its conclusion. He was walking a fine line, but he felt assured that, at last, he could keep his balance.  
  
_(Do you think he'd be too strong for you, if he were under pressure?)_  
  
No. Now that the question was raised a second time, his answer was very different from the first.  
  
A rumble shook the very foundations of the conference room, and a white light flooded through the skylight above like a false dawn. Reed blinked at the sudden, penetrating beam lancing through his eyes, stabbing through his body, and threw his arms up to protect his face from the glare, flinching back instinctively into the last tattered shreds of shadow that had shrunken against the wall behind him.  
  
On the far side of the light, the Dark Man shrieked.  
  
The svelte shadow was as swift and silent as his long limbs and stealthy manner had suggested—faster, even, than Reed himself. The shriek that had startled him and should not have done so had barely rang into the shadows and the light lowering towards them had not yet fully eclipsed them, but the Dark Man was nowhere to be seen. Reed squinted against the strobe of searing light, nursing his singed right hand against his chest. It burned where those rays had struck him, far more fiercely than any other part of his exposed skin—a distant hurt as those in his dreams had been distant hurts, overlaid exactly over the net of bone that had itched so maddeningly, as the new wound in his shoulder had overlaid the old.   
  
He couldn't believe he had been so blind—able to see across time and space, yet unable to see what lie under his very nose.  
  
All your little secrets are coming out now, aren't they? he bellowed, his lone voice lost in the roar of the shuttlepod overhead; but not lost, he knew, to the Dark Man. The Dark Man did not need audible confirmation of things already taken directly from Reed's mind. He had tried once before to hide his thoughts, and failed. This time, he could not afford to fail. The element of surprise was his only weapon.  
  
There, faint in the darkness beyond that light, he saw a movement. Human eyes would be blind to a rustle so slight as that, shifting tones within tones the only indication of life; but his eyes, at this moment, were _not _human. He saw in the dark, as they did. He burned in the light, as they did.  
  
An echo rang through the darkness, words never meant for his ears coming back to him as clearly as if he heard them anew; Trip, out in the plaza, telling Hoshi to go. _There were only two humans, _he had said—Trip the one, Hoshi the other. He and the Dark Man had become, if not gestalted, then counterparts . . . and whatever would harm one would also, luck willing, harm the other . . .   
  
Without warning, Reed darted from his sheltering stripe of shadow and out into the white-hot globe of light, out across the no-man's-land that seared where it touched, and into the shade shielding the Dark Man . . . and there he fastened his deadliest grip on the creature's coat sleeve, twisted, and yanked him out into the light. Smoke spewed from the very real, very solid black form in his hands, the air crackled with the sound of frying meat, and the Dark Man screamed again, too startled at this audacity he had not predicted to fight back.  
  
He twisted and flailed and thrashed in Reed's hands, but Reed held grimly to his task, unmoved by the animalistic shriek almost flesh and blood in nature; for the first time this being he held became something he could perceive as _living. _The untouchable wraith he had feared in many a childhood nightmare since that first night was, for all his tricks and illusions, nothing more than a fallible, killable creature.  
  
Reed's own skin burned, his eyes stinging with unstaunchable sweat, and his iron-fisted right hand shrieked like nothing he had ever felt before . . . but still, he held on.   
  
You won't . . . kill me. The Dark Man's voice no longer struck like ice into his spine; it fluttered like the last breath of life in a dying moth's wings. All pretense at telepathy, at metamorphosis, at kinetic power, was abandoned now; all his tricks lie exposed and hollow. In the end, Reed, whose mind was supposedly open to and unprotected from this being, had nevertheless taken him by surprise. He had bluffed, and he had won. His poker face had never earned him a higher reward.  
  
You sound remarkably sure of yourself, sir, Reed bit, his teeth clenched tight as his fists, his remark distorted between them. What did you do? Read my mind?  
  
The Dark Man's brittle black shroud collapsed inward as this creature that filled its folds doubled, crumpling to his knees in Reed's wretchedly determined hands. Smoke poured from him, from the both of them, like spires of ash rising from a funeral pyre. If you kill me, it will alienate you from these people you work so hard to protect. The attack, so much more a promise than ever it was a threat, came in a broken husk of sound expelled on a weakening breath, and Reed barely heard it. You'll have squandered your new life here in space for good.  
  
Reed bit back his own crescendoing pain and curled his pinching fingers closer into those paper-thin folds . . . but now, his hands trembled. His heart pattered quickly as an ensnared hare's, but his grip hardened, shaking, refusing to let go. I do what I have to, to protect them! They understand my duty every bit as well as I do.  
  
The weak laughter that rippled out in reply clearly cost the Dark Man dearly; now, even his featureless face was shrouded in that cloak, limbs withdrawn within, body bowed and balled up beneath. He was dying, every blackened stream of smoke taking with it another second of life. Reed was beginning to feel faint and giddy with his own agony.   
  
You won't kill me, the Dark Man whispered.   
  
Reed demanded, shaking the weighty bundle shedding ash in a fine shower around them. Why won't I kill you?  
  
The shape shuddered, but no more came until his last, weak admission: Because that's what I would do. I would kill you in a heartbeat, and you know it, human.  
  
Reed tightened his jaw against the worst pain yet—being reminded that what he once was, he would no longer be; human. I know you would, Reed murmured, faint with distress. I know you as if I could read your mind, everything except your name. Do you imagine you know me? Do you honestly trust that I won't kill you? You think I'm bluffing; believe me, _sir_, I've been told my poker face leaves much to be desired.  
  
The bundle—shrunken, deformed, twisted into a pool of black fabric and dense night and shrouded in a bitter, burnt odor that drowned the former acid—began to quake like a galleon in high winds. You'll never see me again, it promised, voicelessly as could be done when his powers of telepathy were, in his weakened state, beyond his reach. Let me go and I'll see none of my faction touch you or your crew.  
  
Reed frowned, awaiting more. It did not come. Slowly, his fists uncurled from the smoking fabric bunched in them, and the figure scrambled away from him like a kicked dog escaping a vicious master. Without a further word spoken on either side, Reed let his tormentor go. His poker face collapsed, without fanfare, without audience, into the wrought, terrified shock his mask had been constructed to cover. It _had _been a trick. Just not the one the Dark Man thought.  
  
-------------------------  
  
Trip dipped the shuttlepod down low until its underbelly kissed the skylight's framework, holding it hovered where the searchlights could beam through into the gloom of the cavernous room below. Hoshi watched over Trip's shoulder, craning her neck to see down past his pilot's seat and his blond head.  
  
she murmured, tightly.  
  
I _am_ holdin' her steady.  
  
A sudden, heavy wind buffeted the shuttlepod, sending it skidding into the skylight below. Hoshi was thrown from her seat, though she held tightly to its edge with both grim hands. A rain of shattered glass spun down into the room below as they collided.  
  
I can see that, Hoshi said dryly, as she scrambled upright. Then, pointing down through the viewscreen: There! I can see him. How can we get down?  
  
As if in answer to her, and with no warning whatsoever, the roof below them vanished. As the doors had vanished, the moment she entered through them. As the stepping-stones had vanished, leaving her stranded. The conference room was instantly ceilingless, open to the elements, and clear for landing.  
  
Trip brought them down, and shut off the thrusters. Shuttlepod One's burring undertone dimmed to pensive quiet. The hatch swooped open, letting in a barrage of wind and rain, and Reed had thrown himself through almost before the hatch had finished opening, bringing with him that heady, bitter fragrance Hoshi never wanted to smell again.  
  
Reed yelled. His eyes burned like flaring coals in his face, and his chest was heaving as he breathed as if he had never tasted air before. She could relate to that, all right. Hoshi tried not to allow her eyes to stray to the bloody stain in his undershirt, his uniform slung low on his hips, the redness of his visible skin. He didn't appear desperately hurt, merely . . .   
  
. . . insane.  
  
Go, I don't know how much longer I can keep the roof off! Go!  
  
Trip cast Hoshi a puzzled glance, which she returned. Then her gaze returned to Reed, and there it lingered.  
  
Trust him, she said.  
  
Trip fired the thrusters, and did as Malcolm said.   
  



	31. SHOOTING FISH IN A BARRELL

SHOOTING FISH IN A BARREL  


  
Hoshi studied his rigid shoulders and braced torso, surreptitiously directing each glance from under her eyelashes so they might go unnoticed. His uniform was drenched with sweat, and a fine grease of perspiration gleamed on his reddened brow. Reed was whole, alive, the bloody smear in his clothing defiantly visible where no wound existed to make it; but he was far from undamaged. He stared into the middle distance, eyes half-lidded, their shocking blue fixed on nothing Hoshi herself could see.   
  
It's bright in here, he murmured, lips barely moving, eyes transfixed to a point beyond the helm where Trip sat piloting the shuttlepod. Could we turn the lights down?  
  
Why, got a headache? That's what happens when ya smuggle information in your bloodstream for a bunch of aliens ya can't even see, Trip drawled, lazily . . . but he lowered the shuttlepod's interior lights, just the same.   
  
Reed nodded his thanks, and shuddered. Hoshi fetched a blanket from one of the storage lockers and slipped it around him, tucking the folds well in. His fingers clutched automatically at the edges and drew the material in tighter, with barely a glance to her in acknowledgment. For a long time Hoshi merely sat beside him on the aft bench, studying his unchanging profile.  
  
Much of what he had said since they lifted him aboard had been lost in muttering, words barely formed or partly missing, and what he had said made no sense. He insisted that the nanobots were good, bearers of information to orchestrate first contact between these shades' and the Vulcan High Command. He had lamented that the lights were too bright and the engines too loud . . . and throughout his garbled speech he had spoken, repeatedly, of a Dark Man', the arbitrator of every complication they had experienced.   
  
Neither Hoshi nor Trip had known what he was talking about, but a fleeting notion of the mysterious he' Reed had mentioned before lingered in Hoshi's mind.  
  
As the sleek lines of _Enterprise_ neared and Shuttlepod One made ready to dock, Reed started abruptly, flinging the blanket aside and clambering to the nearest viewport.   
  
he muttered, making the word burn like an accusation. Trip lowered them automatically, but Reed raised a peremptory hand, gesturing he brighten them again. No, no, leave them! Leave them.  
  
Trip and Hoshi exchanged an uncertain glance, not the first they had indulged throughout the journey; and then, trusting him as Hoshi appeared to, Trip raised the lights again. Hoshi tried not to notice how Reed winced as he did so. She watched him at the viewport but made no move to join him, disturbed at his sudden lack of grace. It was as if he had lost control over his own limbs, of his sense of distance, treating obstacles as if they did not exist in the same three-dimensional space as he did. She cast her mind back over all the times when his agility had astounded her, and shuddered inwardly at the painful difference.  
  
_Let it go, Ensign_, she berated herself. _It's not like you should be surprised he's feeling a little off right now. In fact, I'm surprised he's even . . . _  
  
The thought remained uncompleted, dying away in light of new information of greater importance. She stopped cold, staring helplessly at a point in the hull of the shuttlepod directly in front of her.   
  
Reed's hand had just passed seamlessly through it. As if it did not even exist.  
  
Or as if _he_ did not exist.   
  
-----------------------------  
  
Hoshi watched him like a hawk the whole of the time they spent docking, waiting for it to happen again. It did not. He never strayed near enough to any solid surface he may sink into, by conscious design or by accident she would not like to say. Maybe he was more aware of his . . . changing . . . than she gave him credit for, and was taking pains to avoid announcing it.   
  
Maybe he wasn't.  
  
The same uncommunicative avoidance was true the whole time from docking to entering the air lock—and there Reed stopped without warning, halting her and Trip behind him. Hoshi dared a sidelong glance to the commander, but his unusually grave face gave no sign of his having noticed anything wrong.   
  
Reed tapped the com on the wall smartly, and they waited, not attempting to stop him until they understood better what it was they would be trying to stop. Reed to the captain, he said curtly, his clipped, professional tone slipping effortlessly back into place as if this were merely a routine mission. As if he had not recently stolen a shuttlepod and a com officer. And as if they had not just survived a difficult exodus from perhaps the most alien encounter to date.  
  
Archer's voice returned over the com, seeming, to Hoshi's ears, admirably unjudging. I see you returned my shuttlepod in one piece, he said. Not to mention my com officer.  
  
Yes, sir, Reed replied. Hoshi noticed that he made no attempt to apologize. Captain, I need for you to trust me on something, and I don't know that there's time to explain.  
  
Forgive me if I don't feel very trusting at the moment. What's the reason for all this secrecy?  
  
Run the commander and Hoshi through standard decon first, sir. Then I'll explain.  
  
Reed ushered Hoshi and Trip to overtake him, and they did so, bewildered. As Hoshi brushed past him in the narrow space, Reed hastily averted his eyes. Her mouth opened to protest, and then she thought better of it, and let the silence fall.  
  
Do as I say, Hoshi, he said, very softly so Trip would not overhear. He offered a pale half-smile which did not quite reach his eyes. Trust me.  
  
Hoshi nodded, and followed Trip into decon.  
  
-----------------------------  
  
It was a brief stay, and both were pronounced clean by Phlox. The door to the air lock opened and Hoshi and Trip spilled out hastily, anxious to know what Reed was being so reticent about. Phlox had assured them that whatever Reed carried was no threat to them, and that, if they were clean of other contagions, then logically so was he.  
  
He had remained in the air lock throughout, and stood quietly by as Hoshi and Trip redressed. He didn't offer a word, or make a move beyond folding his arms as he waited. Now that it felt so close to being over, Hoshi didn't honestly know if she was mad with him for involving her, or not. It was true that she had mostly involved herself. Trip's face was shuttered, but to her eye shock and an unreadable emotion lying barely beneath the surface had as much to do with it as any animosity toward the lieutenant for stealing her and the shuttlepod. Trip had always struck her as a passionate soul, and one to take things deeply to heart.  
  
Reed, the textbook compliment to her evaluation of the commander if ever she saw one, waited until both were dressed in fresh uniforms before saying, simply:  
  
If you could fetch T'Pol, Commander.  
  
Trip gave Reed a thoughtful stare, searching for the evidence of more than was said; then he nodded and left through the now inactive decon, leaving Hoshi alone with Reed once more. Hoshi let the silence work for her, allowing _Enterprise's_ restful hum to carry the awkward moment when she herself felt unable to. Compliment, indeed—so opposite, and sometimes so cold where Trip was warm, but like as two subspace beacons inside. Both of them, despite their different approach to the task, had tried their utmost to protect her down on that planet. They had succeeded, she thought with no intention of ever disclosing it, every bit as much as Captain Archer would have done.   
  
Her eyes wandered not quite idly, looking for signs of injury on Reed's body as he stripped his shredded uniform away, unaware as she did so that she expected to find none beyond the angry redness of his hands, and in particular the back of his right. Her attention settled uncomfortably on his shoulder, where the dark bloom in his uniform had rested.  
  
Didn't you have a scar . . . just there? She reached across, and traced the memory of it in the air a breath away from his skin.   
  
I did, he said, simply. It healed.  
  
So . . . why send us through decon before you? Did you figure out how to reverse . . . whatever's happening to you?  
  
He nodded. I believe so.  
  
So what do we have to do? No accidental slip of the tongue—she _wanted_ to help him. Wanted to be a part of this to the bitter end, having embarked on it at its beginning.  
  
Reed sighed, as if by doing so he could somehow expel the contaminants from his body on the outrush of breath. When you and the commander brought the shuttlepod overhead at the institute, I noticed something. I'd seen it, a hundred times before, but . . . well, I guess you could say I wasn't paying attention. He smiled, bitterly. The aliens we're dealing with have an aversion to light, Ensign. I know because . . . I felt it.  
  
Hoshi gulped, that image of his hand sinking into the hull flashing through her mind. You're becoming like them, aren't you?   
  
Reed refused to meet her eyes or her accusation, instead fusing his whole attention to the process of folding a uniform fit now only for waste disposal. If he registered any surprise at her question, then he kept it carefully hidden away. The light hurt him. I think it could kill him. Therefore an intense burst of EM radiation should destroy any biological elements of theirs in either myself or the subcommander.  
  
  
  
Reed smiled, sadly. Of course. I never told you much about him, did I?  
  
Hoshi shook her head, no. I get the feeling you're not going to now. Malcolm, if . . . if you had the same reaction to light as he did, does that mean . . ?  
  
That I've taken on other interesting attributes'? Now that would be telling. There was something about the reply that should come with a smile—and yet it came with nothing, not even a frown.  
  
I only asked, Lieutenant. There's no need to bite my head off.  
  
Reed shrugged and handed her his folded uniform, plumping it unceremoniously into her arms. She accepted it without a word. You don't know what it was like, Ensign. What it _felt_ like. I could have destroyed him down there, in the blink of an eye, but I didn't. I bargained instead. And do you know why?   
  
Weakly, Hoshi shook her head, wilting under his sudden tempest. He had changed from quiet and melancholy to shockingly harsh in one fell breath, sweeping her away in the flash flood.  
  
Because I knew I wouldn't be able to stop, he answered, subsiding as suddenly as he had erupted. That kind of power . . . I was only beginning to get an idea of what I could do, but I know more than well enough what he _did_ do. To me, to T'Pol. I might start out using these abilities to defend the _Enterprise_ . . . but before long I'd want to try a little bit more, and a little bit more, until eventually . . . eventually I'd be as bad as he is. That's why I want this reversed. As quickly as possible.   
  
But if you're turning into . . . whatever it is they are . . . and this could kill one of them . . .  
  
He suddenly turned bloodshot eyes on her, and whatever she had intended to say died in her mouth, seeming inconsequential, tactless, and even unkind. Whatever objections she had meant to raise, he was already aware of them all.  
  
I know, Hoshi, he whispered. As he reached her name, his voice weakened into something terrifyingly close to breaking. Believe me, I know.  
  
-----------------------------  
  
This time Trip found T'Pol in her quarters, kneeling beside a lighted candle at her low table, her head reverentially bowed. Aside from the flickering single flame, the room was in darkness, and the furthest corners were shrouded in dancing striations of flame and shadow. The clutter he had witnessed before had been tidied away, presumably by T'Pol herself, and a near impossible degree of order had once more been imposed on the room. She may not be very vocal at present, nor forthcoming with her inevitable insults thinly disguised as guidance, but in every other respect, she appeared to be the same old stuck-up Vulcan again. The inebriation' appeared to have passed as suddenly as it had come.  
  
She raised her head as he entered, and though Trip hardly expected her to rattle off a welcome speech, he had hoped for something a little more concrete than the bland appraisal she was directing his way now. The stuttering shadows netted across her face were the only semblance of movement in the whole, dim room.  
  
I, uh . . . I think we found a way to fix you all up, he said, tentatively.  
  
T'Pol, naturally, said nothing in response. She made no move to stand and come with him. Instead, she reached across the low table, selected an unlit oil burner, and tilted it towards him to reveal a sludgy brown liquid coating the base. How any face so expressionless could be so accusing, Trip would never know.  
  
Look, I'm sorry about that, he conceded, reluctantly. T'Pol set the vessel down again, and nodded.  
  
Trip waited a moment, hoping for some sign of compliance from her. He realized, within a few moments, that she was waiting for him to offer a little more first.  
  
Malcolm thinks he found a way to solve your little . . . problem, he ventured, hoping that by attributing this request to someone else, he would enjoy a better response. It was clear Trip himself was far from her favorite person right now. Look, pointy, I'm sorry I bruised your elbows, okay? I'm sorry I spat coffee in your little pot. But if you ever want that voice o' yours back so's you can tear me off a strip, you're gonna have to trust me on this. I'll even go a round with ya in the gym so's you can pay me back a shiner or two. How's that?  
  
T'Pol levelly met his gaze, owlishly unblinking, her face the picture of serenity. Then, minutely, she nodded, snuffed the candle flame between her forefinger and thumb, and rose to follow him.  
  
-----------------------------  
  
Hoshi stood with Phlox, Archer and Trip outside the decon chamber as T'Pol removed her jumpsuit and folded it neatly. Phlox was intent upon fine-tuning the adjustments to the EM emitters in the chamber, but the captain and Trip remained silent—and no doubt aware that they were superfluous to proceedings. Reed was already waiting in decon.   
  
So, Doctor, I trust you have some idea of why Malcolm's asked us to do this? Archer asked.  
  
I admit I am not entirely familiar with the process, but there have been notable occasions in human medical history where gamma rays and ultraviolet radiation in controlled doses have been used to cleanse carcinogenic cells from a living organism. These levels should hold minimal risk for either the lieutenant or the subcommander, but if Mr. Reed's information is correct, it will be sufficient to kill any alien elements in their bloodstream. Human and Vulcan tolerance to electromagnetic radiation is far superior to these . . . visitors spoken of.  
  
Hoshi bit her lip. There would be a Vulcan in there; but she suspected, knowing what she knew and was obliged to keep unoffered, that there would be something far from human in there with her—something whose tolerance of EM radiation may differ vastly from their own ideas. She might tell what she knew, but what good would it do? There was nothing else to be done but to go through with this process, and hope.  
  
Ya know, T'Pol, I could always help ya with a little aftersun lotion when you're done, Trip teased idly. I should say the sunburn in there'll be a killer.  
  
Hoshi winced inwardly at Trip's unfortunate choice of words, no part of the conversation but unable to avoid overhearing it. Yes. Although sunburn would be the least of Reed's worries, what he was about to put himself through may very well be a killer.  
  
Vulcans don't get sunburn as a rule, Commander, she said, absently. Their sun's a lot hotter than ours. They developed more resilient skin as a consequence.  
  
Steal my fun, Trip muttered. T'Pol did not deign to give him so much as a glare. They both knew he was only teasing out of nerves. Though Reed's fears had been made known only to Hoshi, the group waited under a general cloud of dread; the air of the side room where they stood was as bated and hushed as their own breath.  
  
T'Pol stepped inside, and the door swept closed behind her.  
  
Archer turned suddenly to Hoshi, and said, without preamble: He's worried, isn't he? He thinks something could go wrong.  
  
Hoshi debated lying out of respect for Reed's confidence in her, but Jonathan Archer had always been able to persuade her deepest fears from her—and had always done something to alleviate it. She nodded, miserably.  
  
Archer said nothing, but his brow creased a little more as they waited. And waited.  
  
And waited.  
  
-----------------------------  
  
T'Pol entered to find Lieutenant Reed seated on the bench at the chamber's back wall, fingers curled convulsively at its outer edge, his shoulders hunched—a defensive gesture, she had come to understand, and one synonymous with personal insecurity or discomfort. As she entered, he shifted his balance and folded his arms squarely across his bare chest. This, like the sideways nod of his head in acceptance of an order to his liking, was another of his recurring mannerisms, and like them, was largely unconscious; but this one was defensive, as he was by his very nature defensive.  
  
For that particular trait, T'Pol could understand the need, even if it was a need she did not share.  
  
The lieutenant attempted to relax his posture as she settled gingerly on the bench beside him. As she had expected—when humans became nervous, they fidgeted. Anxiety of many distinctive layers was pouring from him in every infinitesimal twitch and every bold attempt at flippancy.   
  
Lieutenant Reed closed his eyes, presumably in anticipation of light from the steadily increasing glow of the EM panels set in the walls around them. Vulcans possessed secondary eyelids that would protect her from any adverse effect, and T'Pol closed them, mimicking him. She rested her head back, and waited, breathing in the sterile air that always seemed so humid to her lungs.   
  
Lieutenant Reed questioned, softly.   
  
She raised her head and opened her eyes to look at him, unable to reply in any other way.  
  
If this . . . doesn't go smoothly, for me . . . He gulped, and T'Pol watched the movement of his throat, seeing in it how much effort it cost him to say whatever he was attempting to say. . . . if it looks like I'm trouble, don't try to stop the process. Not unless I seem to be in serious danger.  
  
T'Pol blinked, respecting the gravity of his request, but not understanding its logic. She raised an eyebrow in query, unable to do anything more.   
  
It won't be pretty. In fact I'm not even sure I want to go through with it at all.  
  
He looked away, suddenly silent as she was, and her faint twinge of interest at what appeared to be a textbook case of human nerves made her wait patiently, expecting further qualification.   
  
At last, he turned back. Would you give up this kind of power, Subcommander, if you had it? Would you just zap it away without even stopping to explore what you _could_ do?  
  
She looked back hard at him, studying the odd dilation of his eyes despite the escalation of light, the tangible eagerness spilling from him. He looked like he was under the influence of a very powerful drug. Which, from what Commander Tucker and especially Ensign Sato had briefed her on, may very well be the case.  
  
You can't even nod any more, can you? he said, at last. With a little_ too_ much interest.  
  
T'Pol could claim worse than that; she could no longer do anything to communicate at all. Whoever this mysterious alien being involved was, he was fighting against this cleansing with all his power.  
  
-----------------------------  
  
The decon chamber swelled with light. T'Pol sat upright, her eyes closed, her hands at her sides, already beginning to detect a faint, sizzling sensation under her skin—like bicarbonate of soda reacting to water—and smelling that scent that had saturated the air around her for the past two days. Her sensitive nose was in no doubt that the frothy odor was rising, filling the tiny decon chamber with an ambient cloud of perfume. It was partly the reason her eyes were closed; the acid in the air was making them sting.  
  
Reed had fallen silent, his head reclined and his eyes closed . . . but he was far from restful. His breathing came in sharp clips, a whistle sounding thinly in his throat like a worn clarinet, and his chest heaved as his lungs struggled to pull in air. The strain increased as the light did.  
  
T'Pol could detect a distinct difference in her own body, but the change was a positive one, her throat less tight, her head a little clearer. She opened her mouth experimentally, but no sound came yet. She would have to be patient.  
  
Lieutenant Reed choked suddenly, a hacking cough expelled from deep behind his ribs, and he reared forward, bent double. T'Pol turned her head towards the sound, but did not risk opening her eyes. She extended her hand blindly to her right, bereft of any other means of contact, and tapped his arm with the backs of her fingers. His skin was feverish to the touch.  
  
I'm all right, Subcommander, he struggled, discomfort shooting through his voice like cracks in a pane of glass. No cause for concern.  
  
She swallowed, feeling its wet glide down her loosened throat, and, flexing her jaw in incremental nudges, forced a few, alien sounding words from her mouth. Alien-sounding because, at last, they were English words she spoke.  
  
I . . . appear improved. No doubt you are experiencing some effect as well.  
  
The pale yellowish ambience filtering through her double eyelids suddenly went black. T'Pol's eyes snapped open to utter darkness, and total silence.  
  
All power—the lighting and the heating and the gentle thrum of the decon chamber—had abruptly cut out.  
  
came Lieutenant Reed's suddenly inflectionless voice beside her. Low, level, and impenetrably calm. I'm experiencing some changes myself. And I have to say . . . I like it.  
  
-----------------------------  
  
The silence lasted three beats of a heart whose dull pound had risen to fill her head, but throughout that silence, she sensed those eyes on her, watching her every move and every breath though she could see nothing of him at all.  
  
You look tense, Subcommander, he murmured, soothingly. Let me help you with that.  
  
Throughout the silence T'Pol had shimmied, thigh to thigh, hand over hand, along the cool bench under her, putting what distance there was between her and the alien entity sitting there in place of their armory officer. In mid-slide her body went slack from temple to toes, locked with hands feeling their way and one knee crooked beneath her, unable to move. A lemonade fizz filled the air.   
  
Feels like you had your strings cut, doesn't it? he said, softly. Like Pinocchio. She heard the light slip of his skin against the bench as he crept along it towards her. You Vulcans have about as much of a conscience as Pinocchio. If not you would have warned us about these aliens, wouldn't you, Subcommander?  
  
T'Pol sat, a marble statue with eyes seeing only blackness but ears, Vulcan ears, to hear every move he made. That scent billowed like a toxic fume, touching her with its sticky syrup-fingers in the dark.  
  
You are not yourself, Lieutenant. Might I suggest you contact Doctor Phlox?  
  
Oh, very good, T'Pol, very good. You almost had me convinced I'm not . . . scaring you.  
  
T'Pol swallowed, clearing the taste that clung to her teeth, dragging it back down inside where it belonged. I can still speak, she commented, laying the accusation of his failure baldly.  
  
Yes, well. I'm still experimenting. I've only been a superhuman for half a day, don't forget. The trouble with you, Subcommander, is that you expect too many miracles.  
  
Feeling returned to her body as abruptly as it had been stolen, and she stumbled away, falling backwards from the bench and scrambling on hands, feet, and every part of her the floor touched into the farthest corner. Her stare was all the question she need ask.  
  
He laughed, the sound reverberating from the closed walls like a richocheting bullet. It's no fun shooting fish in a barrel, T'Pol.  
  
What is it you want, Lieutenant? T'Pol hooked her feet under her, and hauled herself to her feet, both hands steadying her between the walls as she swayed sickly. She faced out into the chamber, her back to the wall, listening for any approach. Huddled in the angle between walls, she looked into nothing, knowing he could see her, sense her . . . control her. The alien being spoken of by Ensign Sato was nocturnal, a creature of the night, with eyes equipped to see without illumination. And according to her, Malcolm Reed had begun to exhibit more than a passing resemblance.  
  
I want to _explore_, Subcommander, he purred, chilling the already cooling air with the ice those few words carried. New life and new civilizations, T'Pol. If this isn't new life . . . if this isn't going where no man has gone before . . . then I ask you, what is?  
  
His bare feet made no sound detectable by humans as they paced the floor, counting seconds dead and gone with their rhythmic pad. But she was not human. She waited for those steps to creep closer to her, circling along the wall to her right or to her left.  
  
You needn't worry that I'll pounce on you, he continued, sounding bitterly amused. I can control you with a thought so long as you have his mark in your bloodstream. What power was his is also mine now.  
  
She shivered, the chill that had descended over the room spearing its way into her thin blood and even thinner semblance of control. It is a temporary desire, Lieutenant, she returned. An inebriation. You have a delayed reaction but it is nothing I have not already overcome, with . . . help.  
  
But you didn't have these abilities, did you? You didn't have this . . . this _omniscience_. It's not like I've never been drunk before. Ask Commander Tucker. This is different.  
  
Of course it is different. It is alien, and by definition of an unknown logic to us. As Vulcans operate on a pattern far from that of humans.  
  
Why do I feel there was an insult in there somewhere?  
  
It will pass, she reiterated. I was unwilling to listen to reason until Captain Archer incapacitated me. But the effects appeared eradicated when I awoke in sickbay. Just give them time.  
  
And get rid of my gift in the meantime, I suppose? Nice try, Subcommander. But you lie about as well as Pinocchio, too. He spat the words as if their taste offended him.  
  
You're delusional, Lieutenant. No doubt you are craving food even as we speak, just as I did.  
  
He gave a breathy, tuneful sound that was neither a sigh nor a laugh. Well, considering I haven't eaten for two days, that's hardly a deductive leap of magnificent proportions, is it? It doesn't prove a thing.  
  
But your behavior _does_, Mr. Reed. You might not be comfortable with the knowledge that I saw into your dream, and a part of your memories as a direct consequence . . . but the fact remains. I saw enough to know that Malcolm Reed does not give in to pressure beyond his own. He joined Starfleet when everyone around him expected differently.  
  
His hesitation, though unseen and unheard, was tangible; the soft taps of his spring-loaded feet halted a little shy of her. T'Pol felt the muscles in her braced arms and poised legs relax. Her defenses were not quite down, not yet; but they had lessened considerably. When at last he spoke, T'Pol heard a fine, running thread of Malcolm Reed splitting the stranger in two like a canyon breaking a desert. Don't you think I know that, T'Pol? Don't you think I know this isn't who I . . . He gave that resigned huff again, a laugh without humor, a sigh without hope. . . . am.  
  
Without warning, the light returned, launching its inimitable force into the waiting air, banishing every shadow.  
  
As it would, eventually, banish _their_ shadow.  
  
Reed stood mast-straight in the center of the chamber, the blue glow crystallizing in the beads of sweat that traced down his body. His shoulders were rigid, his lips immobile, his chest heaving as he breathed . . . but his head was down. His slim frame shuddered gently in spite of his unyielding spine and squarely planted feet.   
  
Slowly, watchful for any sign of deception, T'Pol approached him.  
  
What if he comes back again, T'Pol? he murmured, as she halted close beside him, her bearing as stoic and unquenchably proper as ever . . . but, she hoped, providing some sense of stability for a man whose sanity was unraveling like a ball of string. What if he comes back . . . and I can't defend my crew, my ship, because I threw away the only weapon we had against him?  
  
You have defended this ship before, Lieutenant, using only your human resources to assist you. Had Captain Archer required a superhuman, then he would have selected an armory officer from among the more . . . physically minded of your profession. He chose you for your tactical ability. And tactical ability is what will protect this ship.  
  
He sighed, and finally raised his head to fix brilliant eyes on her. Eyes now blessedly human, the pupils shrunk in the presence of so great a bath of light, heat, and quietude. Thank you, Subcommander. I know this won't mean much to you . . . but human's all I've ever been. I wouldn't want to be anything else. Anything special.  
  
T'Pol did not reply. After a moment, when his breathing began to labor painfully once more, she extended her right hand, approaching from behind him to conceal her movement from his direct line of sight, and gently pinched the nape of his neck in her precise fingers. He slumped to the deck, unconscious . . . and thankfully unaware.  
  
Nobody had told her as much—but logic dictated, naturally, that this process would hurt him as much as the cells it was designed to eradicate. If he could sleep for now and then wake, as she had, feeling in possession of his own mind once more, then all the better for them all.  
  
She nodded, once, and took her seat on the bench at the far wall. No doubt Mr. Tucker would say she had taken her first lesson in human kindness.  
  
-----------------------------  
  
Phlox had initiated the EM emitters ten minutes ago, building their intensity in creeping fractions. The window to decon remained shuttered throughout, and the com between the two rooms was silent.   
  
Hoshi cupped her elbows in her hands, and shivered. She had counted the passing seconds in a cornucopia of languages, at least those that featured a comprehensive numbering system, merely to distract herself. Like a watched pot, it did not go any faster for the scrupulous timekeeping. The silent group waited, either for an all clear . . . or for a call for help.   
  
When at last the com from decon whistled some time later, Hoshi jumped clean from the ground and left her heart behind. It no longer seemed to beat where it should.   
  
Captain, you must shut off the emitters, came T'Pol's strained and beautifully familiar voice. Now. As you can tell this procedure appears to have worked, but Mr. Reed has collapsed. He seemed comfortable until a few moments ago, at which point he showed signs of fatigue and discomfort. He is currently unconscious but appears to be in no danger.  
  
Archer gestured to Phlox with a cutthroat motion, and Phlox immediately powered down the EM emitters in decon. There was a pause of two or three seconds and the lockdown on the doors was released. Hoshi was the first to spill in the opening door, there before even Phlox could attend his likely patient.  
  
T'Pol stood to one side of the door, discreetly tucked away, and looking on with perfect equanimity. Hoshi barely saw her; her eyes went instantly to the crumpled form of Reed on the far side of the chamber. He was motionless, clearly unconscious. His skin had been burned a throbbing, angry red by the lights.   
  
She and the captain knelt either side of him, and Hoshi carefully lifted his head in her hands. Phlox had entered behind them, a scanner checking Reed's lifesigns. Trip had silently gone to T'Pol, and Hoshi saw enough past Phlox's shoulder to notice the commander shoot the Vulcan a fearful look, a tenuous half-smile touching his lips. It could not be her imagination that, without a single muscle twitching out of place, T'Pol managed to return it. It was in the eyes.  
  
He's clean, Phlox announced. They both are.  
  
Hoshi looked down at the unconscious Reed, reflecting that the killer' sunburn would trouble him badly later on—but he was himself. He was Malcolm.  
  
And he was human again.  
  



	32. NOTHING LASTS FOREVER

Well, this is it - the last chapter. I'd like to say thank you to everyone that reviewed: Catspaw, Leyli, Jill-ka, PJinNH, Evil Penguin Plushie, Carol, Am. I hope I haven't forgotten anybody but my reviews pages are playing up a bit today and I can't be certain it's all displayed.   
  
Catspaw (very nicely) suggested I could try original fiction. We must think alike! I've been playing with some original stuff, but none of it's quite ready for genera reading yet. As soon as it is, I'll probably be posting something at FictionPress.net to see how it goes.  
  
Thanks everyone for reading!  


  
NOTHING LASTS FOREVER  


  
Faceless, it stared back at him from its place of honor—or was it its place of accusatory exhibition, like evidence presented at a trial? Silent, it whispered tones of unrest through the tempered air. Clean air, unscented air. He had left the lights on, as if in salute, because he _could_—but they were dim, and reflected little from the mirror that mocked him so unobtrusively.   
  
It was, after all, the middle of the night.  
  
He had slept the afternoon away in dreamless peace, waking in his own bunk with a soothing glow seeping through his body, and a tangle of bedclothes restraining him as surely as a set of handcuffs had once done. _Enterprise's_ latent power pulsed gently through the bunk's frame as she sped through a vista of stars, carrying her crew to other strange new worlds before the dust of the last had settled over its unwitting participants.   
  
Reed twisted in his swaddle of blankets, the sweat that must have streamed from him in his sleep tugging the folds with him, and stared into the dull reflection of the raccoon-eyed, horribly sunburned man there. A man who had lain with his right cheek and shoulder to the deck as the light fused into what remained exposed, and who was now a two-tone piebald. The reflection watched him as he watched it, but it was his own. It was within the bounds of the human universe where he belonged, and where he now existed once more.  
  
Talk to me, he murmured, the coarseness of his own voice surprising him. This silence is going to drive me to drink before I'm very much older.  
  
The mirror, and indeed his own resistant thoughts, declined, and a silence settled back like roused dust, lying thinly over everything and ready to take wing again at the slightest disturbance. Even his own voice, weaker and paler than he was accustomed to hearing it, sounded strange to him now.   
  
Under his bedclothes he was mostly undressed, and wearing only the Starfleet-issue jockey shorts he had worn when he entered decon. The small audience he had nodded to on his way inside must have returned him to his quarters and hustled him into his bunk to sleep it off. Ruefully, Reed indulged in a private grimace which the unforgiving mirror caught, duplicated, and made public to the sleeping room in all its red-and-white glory; he could only hope Hoshi and T'Pol had not lent a hand.  
  
T'Pol. So many of the moments prior to his blackout refused to come even as he willed them forward; he could recall, with excruciating detail like a nail driven into his skull with a mallet, what the subcommander had been confronted with, what he himself had put her through . . . but the memory was distanced, a shadow, and hardly felt his own. He wished he could say that what had come from his mouth—and from his mind—had in no way been his, a notion planted by the Dark Man and by chemical cocktails beyond his flimsy human ability to control . . . but the doubt, and the _fact_, remained. Defense was his life, the one ability in which he had always excelled; the promise of power too great for any enemy of the _Enterprise_ and of Starfleet had been the one ambrosia that could tempt him. As, no doubt, the Dark Man's desire for anonymity had corrupted him into abuse of those same gifts. They were gifts; but they were also a curse. Reed was glad, so glad, to finally be rid of them. He didn't want to be any more different than he already was.  
  
He tossed and turned an hour away in his bunk, awake and aching, his skin a trail of bright, itching fire beneath the welts of sunburn—but skin-deep, and no deeper. The part of him still tuned to reality listened, albeit in snatches, for the march of boots outside—his own security men, coming to take him for court martial. He no longer wanted sleep, and shunned with an instinctive repulsion he did not recognize as fear every attempt unconsciousness made to steal over him again. He did not know, quite, how he had blacked out the first time.  
  
T'Pol. She had humored him to the best of her Vulcan ability, approached him, and shown him a singularly unjudging attitude—for a Vulcan—and then, lights out. The connection, one which felt both real and imagined, was unmissable, and quite unrepayable.   
  
Even her name drove him back, his mind flinching from every thought concerning her as burned fingers flinch from a naked flame, but, like a man reaching into the fire for something worth having, Reed coaxed himself to make contact with them. He had been trying not to focus on how much of his inner thoughts had been laid bare, not merely to a Vulcan with no possible concept of the feelings woven into their very fiber, but to Hoshi, to Trip, to all of them. And the captain must think him an insubordinate madman.   
  
Reed dragged the pillow over his face, taking refuge in darkness, relishing the silence within this tiny cave—and relishing this time, at least, when he did not yet have to face them. Dreading resolution with one person was worry enough, and would have him sweating in the everyday course of things—to dread each one of them, different apologies and different thanks to give in turn, was a nightmare. He had no way of knowing which of them he may encounter when he next set foot outside that door.  
  
He shuddered so forcefully the bunk tremored beneath him, resigned to the fact that his own anonymity was over—and confronted, at last, with the horrible realization that secrecy mattered almost as much to him as it had to his life's worst enemy to date.  
  
-------------------------------  
  
His first confrontation did not take place outside this room, nor did he encounter' the person it concerned in the accidental way he had expected he would. Hours into the night there came a whistle at his door, and when he did not immediately reply, there followed a solid knock, knuckles on metal, that could originate only with one very forceful individual.  
  
Malcolm? Hey buddy, you alive in there?  
  
The joke, to Reed's mind, was singularly distasteful.  
  
Come in, Commander, he called out, desperate not to. I don't think it's locked.  
  
It wasn't. The door clicked silently back and Trip stepped amiably inside, not waiting for the invite's repeat. There was a slow smile seasoning the commander's mouth, for once a closed mouth, but his face was gray above it, faintly concerned. Feelin' rested? he asked, the smirk spreading without guile but never quite touching his eyes.   
  
Yes, actually. Amazing what a nap can do for you. _Or against you_, he thought, bitterly remembering his walkabout to the armory, to engineering, and the dreams that had sparked it all. He decided, in the end, not to share the comment.  
  
'Specially a fourteen-hour nap. It's tomorrow, Lieutenant. Guess you musta slept right through.  
  
Reed pulled himself up a little straighter, and reached automatically for the blue vest hanging on the chair beside his bunk. He couldn't honestly say he was surprised at the news. I suppose I must have.  
  
Nasty sunburn you got, there. Must hurt like even your first hangover never did. It's not everyday ya get to look like a stick o' rock, huh, Malcolm?  
  
You know, the good thing about getting fourteen hours' sleep is that I feel more than rested enough to stand up and thump you.  
  
Come to think of it, T'Pol did mention you weren't feelin' too pretty at the time. Only she didn't say it like that.  
  
Reed's back stiffened, the vest half-straightened over skin that screamed as the fabric brushed it. What _did_ she say it like?  
  
She said you showed signs of fatigue and discomfort', whatever that means, Trip replied, launching into a passable if sarcastic imitation of their Vulcan science officer. Phlox just stood there smilin' and sayin' she should win an award for understatement. Gotta say I agree with him—that was the best we could wrestle outta her. Trip shot Reed a sidelong glance, and for that instant, the smile vanished thoughtfully. 'Spose there was nothin' to tell.  
  
Reed agreed, careful not to make the response too quickly. No, there was nothing of any consequence. I didn't feel quite myself at the time, that's all.  
  
Seems to me like that Vulcan's not feelin' quite herself, either. She _apologized_ to me for giving me the runaround yesterday mornin'. Can you believe that? Just when I think I can rely on her to be the same old annoyin' little know-it-all, she goes and gets _nice_ on me? What's wrong with the woman?  
  
Reed smiled, keeping it to himself—as she, it seemed, had kept things to herself. It was another thing they shared—they both knew how to keep a secret. Maybe she's learning the logic of being . . . human, he said, but almost to himself. She had certainly shown more mercy than he would ever have thought possible. What did she have to apologize to you about?  
  
Oh, we, er . . . we kinda had a fallin' out, the commander said hastily, his eyes flickering away for a second to the mirror replaying all their static conversation. Reed could clearly see the discomfort in his friend's face, turned aside from him but nevertheless crystallized in the glass. Got into a bit of a fight. You know how it is.  
  
Of course. The secret existing behind the commander's eager affability lurked a fraction out of reach, as the shadowlands that rested beneath reality's surface were out of reach—for humans, at any rate.   
  
He understood effortlessly just what had happened, and could not help but find the chain of events amusing in a sour sort of way. T'Pol had spoken of her own experience with the temporarily mind-altering side effects of the Dark Man's mark, and had mentioned how Captain Archer incapacitated her—but she had revealed none of what transpired in between. Reed had his suspicions that Trip's role in T'Pol's insanity had reflected _her_ role in his; and her gratitude for the commander's silence, coupled with her very Vulcan sense of verbal economy, had persuaded her to bite her tongue in turn. It seemed even Mr. Tucker could keep his mouth shut when it suited him. And, indirectly, it was Trip he had to thank for T'Pol's silence. It was the least Reed owed him to return a little of the favor in the only way he could.  
  
he said, suddenly. There's something I think you should hear, before . . . well, before we all move on and this becomes another of those incidences we don't talk about.  
  
Sounds important, he said, a vein of worry entering his voice. It was true, and they both knew it. They _didn't_ talk enough.  
  
Commander, that phase pistol you took from the armory . . . the one that wasn't . . . that wasn't set to stun. It wasn't your fault.  
  
Trip stared at him, uncomprehending. What do you mean, it wasn't . . ? I know what a stickler you are for keepin' your armory in order, Lieutenant; you're as uptight as a Vulcan in the sixth year of their dry spell. Now there ain't no way you left one of your phase pistols set to kill. I musta knocked it on the way that night . . .  
  
You didn't, Commander. It was me. I sleepwalked and . . . he made me alter the setting on the phase pistol he _knew_ you would take, and give to Hoshi. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't Hoshi's fault. To be perfectly honest with you it wasn't even mine.  
  
Trip's shoulders slumped, visibly, and a tuneful sound of a quality neither good nor bad, merely undecided, escaped his lips. You've gotta be kiddin' me, he breathed.  
  
Would you prefer I was?  
  
No, no, course not. It's . . . well, it's a weight off, is what it is. Thanks, Malcolm.  
  
You're welcome. Trip.  
  
Trip beamed, and his familiar, larger-than-life demeanor fell back into place, dancing with undaunted mischief. You know, he mused. I think that's the first time I've ever heard you call me that.  
  
Reed smiled back, and hoped, privately, that it wouldn't be the last.  
  
-------------------------------  
  
Trip had no sooner left, idly muttering that something in the room had put him in the mood for raspberry-ripple ice cream, when Reed's com chirruped in mimicry of his door tone. The mirror, in its unquenchably innocent way, parodied his moves as he leant over and depressed the key beside his bed, expecting to hear a call to the captain's ready-room in answer to his offenses.  
  
If that's you going on about lollipops again, Mr. Tucker . . .   
  
came Hoshi's clear, proud, and softly feminine voice over the com channel, rendering him speechless instantly. It's good to hear you're awake.  
  
Reed subsided and sank back in his warm nest, passive and smiling. So he was safe from Mr. Tucker's jokes and from disciplinary action, at least for the time being. Morning, Hoshi, he slurred, and ran a hand gently over the angered side of his face, then briskly across the other, contemplating the unsightly scratch of stubble there. Not so long as he would have imagined, perhaps one day's growth in place of two, but still undesirable.   
  
He shot a disgruntled glance at the mirror, and sighed. An officer at his best, after all, is always well groomed. Today he looked like the bowl of strawberries and cream to Phlox's cornish pasty.   
  
Did the commander tell you the news? she asked, eagerly.  
  
He ranted about T'Pol a bit. What news?  
  
We're heading for Titrinus. There was an unmistakable smugness to her tone, as if they had all drawn straws to determine who would tell him, and she had won.  
  
What? Why?  
  
The captain thought it would be impolite to keep them waiting for their cargo any longer than we already have. We're delivering what we have of the nanobots, sir.  
  
Sir. In just one word, the tentative steps towards friendship they appeared to have taken vanished like mist in the morning sun. Maybe he had imagined, all along, that her slip from protocol meant anything. Maybe she had merely been humoring a potentially volatile superior while the danger lasted. Reed closed his eyes, exhaled between his teeth, and dropped his forehead against his clammy forearm.   
  
The power to do good had tempted him, in a moment too brief to hold and too lasting to excuse, to accept the gift given him. The promise of finally finding the place he belonged had tempted him as strongly to refuse them.   
  
I appreciate being informed, Ensign, he said, at last. He despaired of the distance he heard there, too used to it to feel much else beyond a weary resignation. What's our E.T.A?  
  
A little over four days, maybe five. We're passing through a busy trade route in this sector, remember?  
  
I remember. I trust you've caught up on your sleep a little?  
  
Ten hours and I didn't move once, she reported. I still have aches on my aches.  
  
Reed smiled, secure in the knowledge that she would never see him teasing her that way. Hoshi could never keep up the by-the-book mentality for long.  
  
And he wouldn't want her to.  
  
So—is T'Pol still carrying the nanobots? Surely they wouldn't have survived decon . . ? And the copper, surely they can't survive in —  
  
No, Lieutenant, they're in a safe place. It's one of the reasons the captain is so eager to get there. They're in Porthos.  
  
_Porthos_? They're in a _dog_?  
  
Even over the com, he could see her nod and feel her smile, both wickedly. He seems fine. Phlox is confident the nanobots never caused any of the side effects you and the subcommander encountered. And I swear Porthos has never had so much cheese in his life.   
  
Malcolm smiled to himself thinly. No side effects. He glanced down at the unmarked skin of his left shoulder, and reflected that his own handiwork would make Phlox green with envy. Maybe they should have just injected them into Porthos to begin with and saved us all a lot of time and trouble.  
  
There was a silence, and Reed realized bashfully that he had given a non-sequitor. His eyes wandered idly across the room, settling past the mirror onto a half-laden chessboard to one side. The black knight looked to be in immediate danger from the white queen. We never finished our chess game, he said, wistfully.  
  
Well, I didn't want you to feel bad about losing.  
  
Reed's gaze skimmed the board again. Oh, I wouldn't worry about that . . . not when you're in checkmate, Ensign.  
  
I am not.  
  
Well, I would recommend you see for yourself, but we both know that wouldn't work.  
  
She laughed, and he joined her. There were a lot of things still to explain—but for now he felt curiously free.  
  
He calmed first, and asked his next question before she had even regained her composure. Is the captain going to press charges? I mean . . . has he mentioned anything to you?  
  
It's all right, Malcolm. He knows enough from Trip and me to know you did what you had to do. And you've more than made up for it. It _was_ you that gave us our air back, wasn't it?  
  
He considered lying, if only for the sake of the peace, but if anyone on the crew would call him to book for it then it was Hoshi with her female intuition. It doesn't matter, Ensign. You would have done the same.  
  
Thank you, she said quietly.   
  
It took the wind from his sails completely.  
  
Well. So long as I don't have to see those handcuffs again any time soon. I still have a rash all around my wrist.  
  
He expected her to laugh again, but she didn't.   
  
Do you know what the name Reed' means, Lieutenant? she asked softly.   
  
No. Well, yes, it's a type of grass that grows around lakes. Ironic really, considering I'm allergic to most of them. He smiled, privately. But somehow I don't think that's what you're referring to.  
  
It can mean somebody who is easily swayed or overcome,'. She paused, inviting a repsonse. He could give none. You made the right choice, Lieutenant. Having a superhuman around was useful for a while, the whole thing could have been a . . . a nightmare, otherwise . . . but I think I like the human version better.  
  
When he caught his own face in the mirror again, he saw with surprise that he was smiling. Despite the pain in his sunburned face, he let it remain.  
  
Nothing lasts forever, Ensign. Not even nightmares.


	33. AUTHOR'S NOTE

Author's Note  
  


  
It took me a moment to work out how to answer Catspaw's question - it's been so long since I wrote this and quite some time since I last read it that I honestly couldn't remember for a moment. In short, the Vulcans' who originally gave them the nanobots were Shades', as I call them - the same race as the Dark Man. But they were of a faction that honestly wanted to make contact with the real Vulcans at Titrinus, where there was a Vulcan ship known to be currently in orbit. Let's call them the Good Guys. The Dark Man was of the opposite faction, the Bad Guys - he didn't want his race to make contact. He used Malcolm as the perfect way to saboutage the _Enterprise's _journey, ensuring the nanobots belonging to the Good Guys wouldn't get there. As the Good Guys had essentially helped the crew, they felt it their obligation to deliver the nanobots to the Vulcans as promised.  
  
I think.  
  
Thanks for reading!


End file.
